Fear of the night, the unknown prowlers in the heather, the escape of the schoolmaster, and above all the danger to his paper, held Rob in a breathless silence.
And all the time Muckle John was walking towards him, whistling softly as he came. Passing a few yards to the left of the fallen tree behind which Rob was crouching he halted suddenly, and then in a leisurely fashion seated himself on the trunk of it, with the tails of his coat almost touching Rob's cheek.
For long enough he remained with his elbows upon his knees staring out upon the loch, and yet Rob never stirred, biding his time. At last with a profound sigh Muckle John began to speak to himself in a low, musing voice, like a man troubled about something and doubtful about the course he should take.
"Poor Rob," he said, "where has he got to now?" Upon which he sighed again and shook his head. "I doubt," he murmured, "that they've taken him—for he no answered my bit whistle. He would have answered had he heard, for he promised me, and Rob's no the lad to go back upon his word—oh no, you'd never suspect Rob of that," and he paused in a heart-breaking manner as though emotion had fairly overcome him. As for Rob, it was all he could do not to spring up and catch him by the hands; but he lay like a stone, utterly miserable, hating the paper and his wretched suspicions.
"Besides," continued Muckle John more briskly, "I saved the laddie's life, and glad to do it. Oh, no, no; dinna tell me that Rob heard the whistle and ran his neck into the noose I was calling him from. Poor Rob," said he again, "I doubt but he's laid by the heels by this time."
Then he stirred a little and began to button his coat.
"I must save Rob," said he in a mighty determined tone, and at that the boy touched him softly on the coat.
"Muckle John," he whispered.
The man beside him started violently, and came near to falling off the log altogether, so great appeared to be his astonishment. But with an effort at recovery he pushed Rob back.
"Down," he whispered, in Gaelic, "down for your life," and he began to stretch himself as though he had fallen to sleep. "Rob," he murmured at last, "I hope ye did na hear my vapourings."
"I fear I did," replied Rob.
"Well, well, there's no harm where no ill was spoken. But I was hurt, ye ken, that you did not heed my whistle. Speak low, Rob, for there's been a man behind yon tuft o' heather for the last half-hour."
"I was feared," said Rob, "Ephraim Macaulay was loosed and oh—Muckle John, I..."
"No suspected me, surely?" he gasped.
"I was feared, ye see, and..."
But Muckle John shook his head, and fell into a soliloquy in Lowland Scots.
"Oh, Rob, Rob," he said, "this is no pleasant hearing. It makes things difficult. I'm minded to leave ye, Rob, though I shrink frae doing so, for the country is fair hotching with spies and sic' like, and at this present moment, there's a wheen men with eyes fair glued to this spot, and all o' them just hungering for the dawn. It's a dangerous ploy ye're engaged upon, Rob, and one beside which Culloden was as snug as snaring rabbits," and he sighed again with his eyes up on the loch.
"Rob," he broke out suddenly, "it's enough to mak' me die with shame when I say it, but it's Macaulay ye think I loosed. Come then, Rob, and follow me, and I swear on the naked dirk I'll show ye Macaulay," and sliding through the undergrowth, he beckoned back to him. In this manner taking advantage of every scrap of cover, they reached the wood where the mist was rising before the dawn.
At this point Muckle John advanced very cautiously upon his hands and feet, and Rob marvelled at so large a man moving as softly as a cat. Of a sudden, however, he dropped upon his stomach and waggled his foot as a warning. For men's voices in muttered Gaelic came from behind a rock immediately to their right.
"He cannot have left the shore, Angus," said one, "for Neil is watching the brae and we will close in on him at sunrise. Besides, he is only a boy."
"There is a great man with him, Donald; who will he be?"
"I am not knowing for sure, Angus, but belike he has taken to the heather like many another pretty fellow, though he looked like one ye know of, whose name I will not be mentioning. Whoever he is—he will not be meddling with us, Angus."
"But where can the Captain have got to—he was watching Archie Cameron and then he disappeared, and Cameron too."
With a backward look Muckle John stole on, and Rob and he passed into the heart of the wood and up to the hollow place where Macaulay had disappeared. There Muckle John straightened himself, and pushing aside the bracken at the lower end of the hollow he beckoned to Rob.
"There," he said, "is your prisoner," and sure enough there lay the bound and silent form of Ephraim Macaulay.
"But how did he get here?" asked Rob. "He could not have rolled."
"Rob," replied Muckle John, "I will be franker with you than you have been with me. I brought him here mysel'."
"You?"
"And who else? But let that be. I have a notion that we must hurry," and he began to unloose the ropes about the prisoner's hands.
Rob watched him without a word, too perplexed to speak.
"Muckle John," he whispered at last, "could we no mak' use of his clothes?"
"Tuts," he replied, "it's evident ye were much impressed with Culloden day; but I would scorn to use an auld trick like that twice in one week. There are folk, Rob, would send the word round that Muckle John was no what he was," and he turned again to Macaulay and loosed his feet. But the gag he left in his mouth, only removing the bandage from his eyes. "Now, sir," he went on, addressing Macaulay in a low voice, "I have here a dirk which does its work secretly and yet with dispatch. Ye take my meaning? I have also a loaded pistol in my pocket, and I flatter myself you are acquainted with my marksmanship. Before we start upon our jaunt there are one or two questions I would ask ye. Just nod your head and I'll excuse a civil answer. I take it that we are surrounded here?"
A violent nod could just be discerned in the gloom.
"Thank ye. In which quarter are your people gathered? Point with your hand."
After a momentary hesitation the prisoner pointed towards the west.
"Brawly done, sir, I knew I could trust you to lie. So we will gang to the left just to spite ye. Now walk between us, and mind, my dirk is itching for a dig into your ribs. If we are challenged say it is only twa o' your friends, and at the first word o' treachery I'll stick you like a pig." With this caution, he drew the gag out of Macaulay's mouth.
"Hark ye, Rob," he went on in a low tone. "There are a score of men around this place, and they're after something with which you are no unacquainted. Should we win through there will be no rest for us till we are well out of the Cameron country—but I doubt the length and breadth of the Highlands will hardly be large enough."
All this he said in a very grave voice, and then taking Macaulay by the arm, he led him towards the hill-front with Rob upon his other side.
The dawn was near at hand and the driving mist fell cold as ice upon their faces. Down below them they could see the cold sheen of the loch, and hear the wild fowl crying in the reeds. After a full quarter of a mile Muckle John halted.
"Now, Rob," said he, "we have reached their line of watchers. As we pass up the brae, we will be scanned by many an unseen eye. Dinna speak, but nod to me when I address ye, and tak' the upper side, for you are nane the waur for a bit heightening," and with that they left the shelter of the trees. In the dim, grey light, the hillside looked very wan and desolate. A whaup was crying mournfully over a lonely pool of hill water. Like a shadow a dog-fox, homeward bound, slipped over the path and was swallowed up amongst the crags.
No other sound reached their ears.
Suddenly from the heather at their very feet a man leapt up—a squat, red-headed fellow with a naked dirk in his hand. Something in Macaulay's dim face seemed to have aroused his suspicions.
"Who are you?" he cried in Gaelic.
"Answer him," growled Muckle John in Macaulay's ear, but before he could say a word, the Highlander had scanned Rob's face, and with a shrill warning scream he leaped backward into the heather. It was his last mortal word. With a whistle of flying steel Muckle John whipped his claymore free, and lunging as it swung from the scabbard, drove the blade in to the hilt.
With a terrible cry the man slithered backwards and coughed, and Rob turned sick at the manner in which he writhed in the heather. Through the mist half a dozen forms came running in their direction. There was not a moment to lose. Hastily disengaging his sword, Muckle John flung his great-coat about the head of the schoolmaster, and hurling him down the hillside dragged Rob to his knees with a hand upon his mouth.
The clatter of Macaulay's flying form and his muffled cries drew the newcomers past the place where they lay, and then springing to his hands and feet Muckle John made off in the opposite direction into the heart of the swirling mist. There was a brief silence and then far away, came a shrill yell taken up again and again until every crag seemed alive with voices, and the faint glow of the rising sun made their escape seem impossible.
"They've found him," cried Muckle John, mounting the hillside at a great pace with Rob at his heels, "so it's save your breath and follow me."
There was little cover on that part of the hill, and it was evident from the frenzied shouts rising from below, that their pursuers had seen them crossing an open space.
"Quicker, Rob!" cried Muckle John, darting away like a hare, his head bent below his shoulders as he ran.
At last, when they had reached a mass of crags and loose stones, he dropped behind the first, dodging back along the upper part of the slope, while Rob scrambled behind him. They halted for a moment, about five hundred yards higher than the way they had passed a few minutes before, and Muckle John peeped round a boulder and scanned the misty slope beneath.
"Look," said he at last. Far below, by stretching his head forward, Rob saw many forms moving like dots amongst the heather. Foremost of all came Ephraim Macaulay, waving them on; then, in a rude half-moon, swept some thirty ragged Highlanders, shock-headed, bearded, fierce looking caterans, racing like dogs upon the trail.
"Broken men," said Muckle John grimly, watching them as keenly as a fox watches the hounds. "Cameron rogues and nameless cattle. Would we were out of this country."
The sun was rising over the glen, and even in that hour of deadly peril Rob must needs admire the gold light upon the blue loch, and the fresh greenness of the spring in the trees far below.
Their pursuers had now reached the point where they had doubled back along the hill, and here they were put out, searching the rocks, and spying along the other slope and making closer search.
"It was that last burst did it, Rob," whispered Muckle John, in a glow at his cleverness; "but I must admit I'm no liking the position. They're anxious to lay hands on ye, Rob, and that's the truth. I'm thinking it must be grand information ye carry, but I'm no the man to question onybody about what best concerns himsel'." Shaking his head he took to watching the movements of their pursuers again.
"I wish I could tell you, Muckle John," replied Rob unhappily.
"Och," said he with a great show of indifference, "I was only daffing ye. It's maybe only because ye were seen wi' Archie Cameron. He's no good company for folk just now."
"He's a brave gentleman, Muckle John."
"Oh, maybe; but there's aye some one to bring up stories against a man. Some say he is faithful to the Prince, but others whose names I'm not knowing will tell you he has an eye to his own affairs."
Rob listened with a flush of indignation upon his face.
"You do him wrong," he blurted out. "The Prince has need to thank him for last night's work, and I'm bound to carry word of it."
He paused abruptly, fearing he had said too much. But Muckle John was apparently intent upon the hillside.
"Look," said he, "they're coming straight for us. Now, Rob, it will be touch and go, and do what I tell you without question, for I know this country like my ain hand; and I tell ye at once that if we are not twenty mile on the other side of them before nightfall, we might as well cut our ain throats. And, Rob, mind it's you they're after, no me. Should you care to hand anything over for safe keeping, just in case—ye ken—" and he paused, looking over Rob's head.
"That I cannot," said Rob firmly.
"Then follow me," was all the answer Muckle John gave, and putting a huge rock between them and their enemies, they ran swiftly slant-wise up the slope until they reached the summit, where for a moment Muckle John looked back. The great half-moon formation of the ascending Highlanders was moving quickly upwards.
"This is no red-coat work," he gasped, "but tartan against tartan, and fox hunting fox," and away they went along the opposite side of the hill, just low enough to miss the sky-line.
As luck would have it that part of the hill was very bare and empty of cover, and ere they had gone half a mile a distant shout warned them that they were seen, and that the whole force of their pursuers was now upon their line of flight.
Rob saw a sudden tightening of Muckle John's mouth, and now it ceased to be a game of hide and seek, but a race for dear life. The pace was terrible. Rob's lungs were bursting with the straining, so that red flashes of light swam before his eyes.
"Quicker!" cried Muckle John, "they are gaining! Oh, can ye no mak' a sprint, Rob—only a hundred yards?"
For a while Rob struggled on, stumbling and gasping, until at last his foot caught in a tuft of heather, and he fell heavily to the ground. Without a word or pause, Muckle John, who was leading by some ten feet, turned swiftly, and picking him up, continued his wild race for the broken rocks that lay before them.
Two hundred yards behind came the foremost Highlanders, leaping over the ground in bounds, their claymores ready in their hands. A minute, and Muckle John had passed among the rocks, then doubling right and left, he sped towards a monstrous boulder, and scrambling up, pulled Rob on top. Now on the back of this boulder lay another great stone poised upon it, and carrying Rob over his shoulder, he clambered up and so to a cleft in the side of the precipice which fronted the hill.
Rob had been too blinded by exhaustion to notice that before them lay what was apparently a cul-de-sac with bare crag on every side, and had he done so he would have realized why the Highlanders had bared their swords. For they were to all appearances in a death-trap.
But Muckle John, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat, seemed well enough content, and placing Rob upon the barren cleft, he turned about and looked down upon the scene below. His assailants were gathered about the rock on which he had first sprung, and were debating what course to take. Far behind came the main body, and still farther away, Ephraim Macaulay.
"Rob," said Muckle John, "have you your wind yet?"
The boy groaned in reply, but struggled to his feet.
"Now," said Muckle John, "I am not the daft fool ye no doubt take me for—there is a way up this cliff only known to me and one other. You see this cleft? It runs for fifty yards in a slanting direction, and there's little enough foothold. There is a break at the corner there and a bit jump of maybe two feet, but no easy, with just a bare rock and six inches to land on. But dinna waver or lose heart, for there's no return and it's certain death to bide here. After that, climb straight up, but leaning to the left, and when ye reach a small tree-stump wait for me, for then it becomes no easy matter."
For a moment Rob hesitated, but Muckle John pushed him gently on the shoulder.
"It's death here," said he again, "for they can go back and reach the top in two hours." Then in a leisurely manner he drew his claymore to hold the rock against assault.
Knowing that if he hesitated he was lost, Rob set foot upon the narrow path that ran along the smooth edge of rock, and never looking down for fear of turning giddy, he wormed his way upwards, feeling every foot of the slippery surface.
A sudden silence fell upon the onlookers below, and then a harsh noise of voices reached him, and a moment later a stone crashed on the rock within a foot of his head.
"Haud tight, Rob," shouted Muckle John; "dinna mind them!" and whipping out his pistol he fired, shattering the arm of another man who was poised for his aim.
Had any one of them there carried a musket, Rob would have been shot like a crow, but as Muckle John shrewdly guessed, no one of that ragged crew had more than cold steel, though that was ready should the boy falter and fall.
But creeping onward he reached the place where the empty space lay, and without a pause he stepped across, regained his balance and disappeared round the corner. At that a great yell of anger broke out, and a sudden rush was made for the lowest rock, upon which half a dozen men climbed and thence swarmed up within three feet of where Muckle John stood, awaiting them.
At that he swung down upon them, and laying about him with his claymore, cleared the stone and stood looking upon the crowd of his enemies with great good-humour. Growling sullen threats, they fell back out of reach of his deadly sword, and so, setting his back against the crag, he drew out his whistle and, placing the hilt of his claymore between his legs, he broke into a Highland rant.
Now the story of that tune was one peculiarly obnoxious to the men below, for it was written to commemorate a great clan battle, in which the people of the West had not covered their name with glory. He played it with grim relish, giving it such a sprightly measure, that every note seemed a jeer and a bitter gibe at their kith and kin.
Indeed, so engrossed did he grow with his melody, that he did not notice a man to his left pick up a great stone, and launch it like a flash upon him. Moreover, it was aimed with a deadly purpose, for it took the claymore on the blade and sent it spinning over the edge upon the earth below.
With a cry Muckle John leaped for the cleft. The men below, with a wild shout, swarmed up like hungry wolves upon the place he had abandoned.
And then drawing his pistol and dirk, he fell upon his knees like a wild-cat defending its lair with tooth and claw, and sent the first man hurtling backwards with a bullet in his brain.
"Lochaber pig," he taunted, "it takes a dirk to make you squeal."
"Man without a tartan," they screamed back in Gaelic, "landless—nameless one..."
"No name is better than a Lochaber name," he cried with a laugh, driving them back for the third time.
But his position was desperate, for the long blades of his assailants could reach him before he could reload, and his dirk was useless except at close quarters.
Now beside him there was a rugged boulder of about three feet in diameter, and no sooner had his eye rested on that, than he bent his long arms around it, and pushing it to the edge rolled it over upon the jeering faces within a few feet of his own, and without watching the panic that it caused, he sprang upon the narrow cleft and began to pass along the road that Rob had gone before.
But now things were very different. Below him, a dozen men had stones in their hands—behind him, those who had the courage were already mounting the dead-strewn rock to follow him.
There was for all that a mocking twinkle in Muckle John's eyes, and he whistled a bar of the tune he had played, and so, walking steadily onward, reached the empty space. It was that critical moment that they had selected for their volley of stones, and indeed it would have gone ill with anyone knocked off his balance at such a time.
But this Muckle John realized as much as they, and out of the corner of his eye he had gauged their scheme to a nicety. He made a step forward, therefore, and a very quick fling back, which few could do where there was not room for the feet to stand, ankle to ankle. And as the stones rattled upon the face of the rock instead of his own, he crossed very coolly and passed on.
Foiled in that plan, they took to aiming at him indiscriminately, and the dull thud upon his side and legs reached Rob up above. Soon a stone cut his face, and he must needs wipe the blood out of his eyes to see his way, which delayed him and brought his pursuers (the few who dared) the nearer.
But he crept on, nevertheless, and at last reached Rob, and supported himself by the little broken tree.
"Oh, Rob, Rob," he gasped, "I nearly spoilt all. Follow me, for they'll turn the corner in a minute. Once let us get back to the top, Rob, and there's no going back," and he looked down upon the heads of their pursuers with a meaning smile.
The last five yards were as hazardous as the rest, and more than once Rob gave himself up for lost. But each time Muckle John steadied him and jested, and whistled a snatch of tune.
At last they scrambled upon level ground, and lay with bleeding fingers and knees and all the strength gone out of them.
Some minutes passed, and from below came the faint shuffling of footsteps. With a groan Rob struggled up and peered over. A dreadful sight faced him. About twenty yards beneath, where one man was forced to climb upon the other's shoulders, the foothold had failed, and after a momentary, fluttering grasp at the thin grass that grew in patches here and there, a mournful cry went up, and the two bodies slid and tumbled and sped out of sight.
"They're killed!" cried Rob.
Muckle John rose stiffly to his feet.
"I said there were but two who knew the way," he replied, "and one is mysel'," and he stretched himself and began to walk up the slope of the hill.
"Come, Rob," said he, over his shoulder, "they'll be after us now, but we have two hours' start, which, saving the English, should prove sufficient."
Then quite suddenly he stopped in his tracks, and stared with a frown upon the glen below. Drawing Rob forward, he pointed downwards, saying no word.
And Rob said nothing either; there was nothing to say.
All along the valley and up into the hills beyond were scattered tiny white tents, and little figures in red coats moved hither and thither like ants in an open space amongst the heather, while the sun shone and glinted on white flickers of steel.
"Rob," said Muckle John, "this is a nice business, for here we are with the wild Cameron country and Arkaig safely behind us, and within a few steps of Glengarry's land, for which we have been struggling for the last four hours and more."
To the south-east of them was Glen-Pean and Glen-Kingie stretching out in solitude. But between them and comparative safety lay the sleeping English tents, and nearing them at every moment were the Camerons and Macaulay. Muckle John shook his head gloomily. "We canna go back, Rob, and we canna go forward—at least no until nightfall, and then we're like to meet with a bullet."
He lay upon the ground, and chewed a piece of grass, eyeing the English tents with a frown.
"We're as good as lost," said Rob hopelessly.
"Man Rob," replied Muckle John grimly, "ye possess a rare discernment."
With a sigh Rob let him be, and took to thinking about his own desperate affairs. Twice during the past twelve hours he had been on the point of destroying the paper and each time he was thankful that he had waited. But now they were as good as lost. Captured either by the English or by Macaulay they were doomed for a quick death, and the dispatch would prove a great piece of treasure-trove for either—the map that would show the way to Prince Charlie's gold, with which he could buy ten thousand men to his standard. At least that was how Rob looked at it, and some would say there was some truth in what he believed.
It was the thought of the money falling into such hands that determined him to destroy the map. He stole a glance at Muckle John, but his eyes were fixed steadily on vacancy. Then slipping away, he leaned with his back against a rock, and drew the envelope cautiously from the side of his brogue, where he had concealed it.
It was sealed and addressed to the Prince. Rob had hardly time to glance at it, however, before a warning call from Muckle John made him spring to his feet, the paper still in his hand.
"See, Rob," cried he, but eyeing the piece of paper keenly, "here comes Macaulay from the west, so we must decide on the instant. Once and for the last time, hae ye onything that I can tak' charge of, for it's you they'll search, no me."
Rob felt himself weakening, but again his promise to Cameron withheld him.
"No," he cried, and made as though to tear the paper in two.
"You doited fool!" screamed Muckle John, rushing at his hands.
Rob with quick alarm leaped aside, and the big man tripped and floundered along the ground. What was he to do? But of a sudden he stood still. Why should he doubt Muckle John?
"I've taken your advice," he said, and showed the piece of paper in his hand.
"It's only what seems reasonable," replied Muckle John. "Now put it by, for it's neck or nothing for us, Rob."
"Have you a plan?" asked the boy, with his eyes on the white tents and his heart in a sad state of fright.
"A sort of a plan," he replied, and started at a run rewards the English.
Without a word Rob followed him. There was no time to question such a course, and already Macaulay was within a mile of them. But when he saw them heading for the tents in the glen below he paused, as well he might, for the sight of two Jacobite rebels scampering towards an English camp was sufficiently arresting.
The Highlanders with him, who had no wish for nearer acquaintance with red-coated soldiery, slackened their pace too, and, dropping below the sky-line, became invisible in the heather.
On ran Muckle John, and behind him Rob, until an English sentinel raised his musket and called to them to halt. The boy glanced anxiously at his companion's face. But he gathered nothing there. There was certainly no sign of fear.
"Who goes there?" cried the sentry.
Quite quietly Muckle John thrust a hand into his great-coat pocket.
"Here is my passport," he replied, "and this is my guide. I am Captain Strange, on special duty in the west," and he handed over a document to the man, who read it slowly, and then saluting, stood at attention until they had passed.
When they were about twenty yards distant, however, Muckle John spoke in a low voice to Rob.
"Look up the hill," he said, "and tell me if Macaulay is coming down."
But there was no one to be seen, and on learning that, Muckle John gave a great sigh as though he were vastly relieved.
They neared the tents and were walking on, when an officer rose to his feet and stopped them.
"Who are you?" he asked, "and what kind of Highland wild-cat is that?" pointing with the end of his sword at Rob.
"I am Captain Strange," said Muckle John.
"Strange," echoed the man, who seemed a good-humoured fellow, greatly bored with sitting among the hills. "Oh yes, I ken ye by name, and I am Captain Campbell, at your service. Come and have a crack inside," and he made to enter his tent.
With a momentary hesitation Muckle John followed him, but first of all he took one swift sweeping glance over his shoulder at the hillside.
Then, seating himself within, he fell into conversation, while Rob waited outside the tent, watching the soldiers standing at their posts, or marching up and down amongst the heather.
All the time a curious presentiment of fear grew heavy upon him, which the silent day only intensified.
"I take it you were at Culloden," said Captain Campbell; "that must have been a poorlike affair."
"None so poor," said Muckle John; "where there are starving men and bickering chiefs you don't look for much resistance, but they broke two lines, sir."
"Did they so? It is evident the Argyll men were not in prominence."
"No," replied Muckle John drily, "the Campbells were employed in pulling down walls."
The other eyed him uncertainly. He felt the sting under his words.
"If the business had been left to the Duke," said he, "there would have been no call for levies from the Low Country."
"If it had been left to the Duke," replied Muckle John, "every clan in the north would have made havoc of Argyll."
"You speak strangely, sir—I take it you mean no offence to the Clan Campbell?"
"I," echoed Muckle John, "what have I against them? I am a Lowlander, as my name tells ye; we canna all be born across the Highland line."
"Well, well, Captain Strange, there are braw men on both sides; I take it you are on the trail of the rebel leaders?"
"And who else? But I would as wittingly trap foxes in Badenoch; they disappear like peat reek on a summer's night."
Captain Campbell nodded his head, and taking out a dispatch from his pocket, he drew his stool a shade nearer.
"You come at an opportune time," he said, "for here is a dispatch in which your name appears, and certain secret information is contained for transmission to you."
"Indeed, sir," said Muckle John, all attention.
"It has reached the knowledge of the Duke of Cumberland that certain rebels are concealed about the shores of Arkaig, and amongst them Lord Lovat, who has fled in that direction from Gortuleg House. Two days after Culloden, a party of dragoons surrounded the latter place, but he had gone, carrying his papers with him. He is an old man, and should not evade capture long. The Duke places the utmost importance on his capture. If Lovat is taken, he is assured all further trouble will simmer out. As long as Lovat lives he will counsel resistance, and that may mean months of service in the hills."
"Are any others mentioned?"
"It is stated that French gold has been landed at a place near Arkaig, and here is a warrant to arrest two rebels who have knowledge of it—one is a boy, Rob Fraser by name, who is acquainted with the hiding-place of Lord Lovat, and the other is—who do you think?"
"Who indeed, sir? Lochiel—Cluny...?"
"No, no, who but Muckle John, the most dangerous of them all when mischief is afoot."
"Muckle John? But is he not abroad?"
"Abroad—who ever heard of him abroad when there is a head to crack at home? They say he is wanted on a charge in the Low Countries."
"A dangerous fellow," said Muckle John severely, "and yet there's a kind of quality about the man—a bird of passage, Captain Campbell, and a bonny player on the chanter."
"More a gallows-bird than any other. He'll whistle a thin enough tune when the Duke has finished with him. He lays great stress on his taking, I can tell ye. He can spin a yarn, Captain Strange, that will be worth hearing, I'll be bound. He and that boy, Rob Fraser, are in company, as desperate a pair as ever skulk in the heather this day."
"I take it there is no saying where they lie?"
The other winked very slyly at that.
"The net is closing," he said, "and once the boy is caught, there is small chance of the other going loose."
In the meantime, Rob was outside, and he wished Muckle John would come. Before them was a weary tramp, and already he was tired. His eyes shut for a moment—then opened and shut again. He took to thinking of his father, and how it fared with Lord Lovat, and so thinking he fell asleep.
His awakening was rude enough, for before he could open his eyes his arms were held behind his back, and he was hoisted roughly to his feet. The officer, good-humoured no longer, was facing him, while half a dozen red-coats shut him off from all chance of escape.
And before him stood Ephraim Macaulay.
"Which of you is Captain Strange?" cried Captain Campbell, very red in the face, and looking back towards his tent as though he awaited an indignant reply from within.
"I am Captain Strange," replied Macaulay stiffly.
"Then where are your papers?"
"They were stolen by the man who came with his boy, who was sleeping outside your tent."
"Be careful of your words, sir. How am I to know that you are what you say?"
"Perhaps you did not trouble to read the particulars on the passport?"
"No, sir—I admit that I did not."
"Then if you had you would have realized that I am not six foot two or thereabouts, or travel with a notorious rebel, such as that boy there. Also that my name is not—Muckle John."
"MUCKLE JOHN!" shouted the officer, "if what you say is true," he cried, and breaking off he started running towards the tent and peered within, then parting the folds, disappeared altogether. But an instant later, he was tearing about the camp like a man gone mad.
"He's made off!" he shouted. "Sound the bugle there, and search the hills!" Then plunging into his tent again, he reappeared with his hat in his hand.
For Muckle John had taken his departure, leaving behind him only a neat hole in the canvas of the tent, on the side farthest from the real Captain Strange, whose reputation as a secret agent in the English service did not warrant for his future safety. For long the soldiers searched, but no sign of Muckle John was discovered, and none had seen him go.
To Rob, however, this was poor comfort, for bound hand and foot and guarded by two soldiers he passed a miserable night, and when morning came he was set between a file of soldiers, and the march to Fort Augustus commenced, where it was rumoured that the Duke of Cumberland would arrive that day.
It was not till mid-day that his hands were loosed, and then, very cautiously, he searched for the precious paper, knowing that the time for its destruction was come.
His fingers ran cautiously down the side of his brogue. He did so lying on his side, and his legs tucked up under his kilt.
But all in vain, for the paper was gone.
It is an error to suppose that the Jacobites were ready to surrender all hope of resistance without a last bid for terms, if not for victory. Culloden was lost, but a large body of the clans had not come up in time to engage in the battle. An ignominious flight spelt utter ruin to the chiefs and unquestioned submission to the Government, whereas a stand in the hills was eminently suited to Highland warfare. Cavalry were useless in rough country and southern soldiers easily outwitted and confused.
Had Prince Charles not lost his head in the debacle of Culloden he might have remained King of the Highlands if not of Scotland itself.
Unfortunately, the strength of the Jacobite army was also its greatest weakness. Quick to mobilize and equipped by centuries of warfare for the field, they were also unaccustomed to a prolonged campaign. The quick fight and the swift retreat, the raid by night and the tireless pursuit were their notion of war. They cared little enough for the rights or wrongs of a quarrel so long as they could kill a man or two, and make home again with a few head of cattle.
For this reason the delay and confusion following hard upon Culloden played havoc with the Jacobite army. Once their faces were set homewards no power on earth could stop the clans. They were weary of campaigning on scanty fare and small pay. A few short days and the Children of the Mist were gathered into their own mountains and the army had melted into a few scattered remnants waiting for a leader. On the shores of Arkaig a few futile conferences took place, and then followed hard the inevitable dispersion.
Lord Lovat, on whom the chiefs still laid a certain trust, was carried to Muirlaggan, where Lochiel, Glenbucket, Murray of Broughton and others awaited him.
They rose as he was carried into their midst, moved by a kind of reverence for infirm old age.
Murray of Broughton shivering with illness, with flickering agitated eyes, stood tapping with his fingers upon the rough table. He knew Lovat of old, and had suffered at his hands; Lochiel, pale from his wound, looked liked a man more heart-broken than anxious. Of all the Jacobite leaders he was the great gentleman and one whose life and motives were of the purest.
Lord Lovat was perfectly at his ease. He took the head of the table without question, scrutinizing each face from under his shaggy brows unconquered as ever.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I take it ye have not accepted Culloden day as yourcoup de grâce?"
Lochiel shook his head.
"No, no," he said vacantly, "it is our poor people that we are minded of," at which Murray nodded, avoiding Lovat's stony stare.
"I too, have a clan," said the old man sombrely, "I have never forgotten that. There is also my son."
They had in common courtesy to acknowledge that he was as deeply involved as any.
"It is our duty to prevent Cumberland taking a ruthless vengeance on our people," he continued; "rather than leave them to Hanoverian justice, we should be prepared to die sword in hand."
Murray of Broughton stirred uneasily.
"I fear your lordship does not know how scattered our forces are—the Prince flying for his life—the clans unwilling to mobilize again."
Very slowly Lovat raised his face, and stared Murray down. Then turning to Lochiel he said: "Is that not true?" as though the Prince's secretary had not spoken at all.
"I am ready to sacrifice everything if we can make a stand," replied the chief of the Camerons simply.
"I think your lordship did not catch my meaning," broke in Murray in a fluster.
"I think," corrected Lovat with composure, "I caught it finely."
"Your lordship's pardon if I seem to take a liberty," said Roy Stuart, "but what can we do more than we have done during the last few months? We have been promised French aid—none has come. We have looked for French gold—there has been little enough of that. The English Jacobites have lain like rats in a hole."
"And we—those of us who can run," retorted Lovat, "are like rats without a hole. There are occasions, Mr. Stuart, when even rats can face the cat—and rout him too."
"The Prince has ordered us to disperse," bleated Murray in a flutter of nerves and tepid anger.
"The Prince," barked Lovat, "gave his last order on Culloden Moor. We are done with princes and Irishmen and grand French promises; we are men with everything to lose and something to gain. Maybe your profession, Mr. Murray, or is it your Lowland blood, has made you unacquainted with the lengths that despair may drive a man."
"You are pleased to sneer, sir," blurted out Murray.
"I trust," replied Lovat, in a melancholy undertone, "you may never have a chance to repay the compliment."
"Come, come," broke in Lochiel, "this is no time for contentions. If it is decided that we shall raise the clans we must make speed. I take it that we are of one mind upon that?"
Lovat nodded his head before any could speak.
"Could we but raise a few thousand men," he said, "and we shall show the Duke what Highland warfare may mean. Let us meet again in ten days' time each with his people. Send out the summons, Lochiel. Let the Prince take ship to France if he will—so long as we do not betray each other" (and here he looked hard at Murray) "we are as safe as wild-cats in Argyll."
There was a loud murmur of approval from those about him. Now, as always, Lovat had carried the day. He had come, an old sick man, coughing in his litter, facing a dozen men fairly eaten up with fear and perplexity. In one short hour he had them at his heel. With a body as sound as his mind he would have raised the Highlands himself.
Still Murray of Broughton, that creaking door, must have his word. It was more his habit of mind than any real evil in the man. He was the soul of method, and concise as the Lord President himself. Perhaps he suspected Lovat, as Lovat in all sincerity suspected him. Perhaps he was influenced by such reason as he possessed. It may be that he foresaw what was ordained, and knew Lovat for what he was.
"My lord," he said in his hesitating voice, "I have little influence here—I have no people to consider—I am not a soldier, only a man of business who has tried to serve the cause."
They waited while Lovat watched him as a snake watches a rabbit.
"Supposing, my lord, that the clans are persuaded to rise again, what kind of campaign can you carry on? Where can you obtain your supplies, your ammunition, or money to pay our troops? Already the coast is patrolled—the Highlands surrounded and the roads to the south cut off—what kind of mercy will the isolated places receive—the very places where you hope to obtain provisions? They will so harry the country, my lord, to starve you out that the very sight of women and children coming to you in the direst starvation will make you regret this step. It is starvation, and not defeat, will give you your answer, my lord."
"There's truth in what he says," murmured a man behind Lochiel.
"Mr. Murray," said Lovat, "I doubt not you speak with sincerity, but this is a matter on which we must take our own counsel. Look to your own safety, Mr. Murray, and no gentleman here will say you acted unbecomingly."
It had become a contest between these two—Lovat forcing the pace to save his neck, and Murray, knowing what was behind it all, struggling, who can say why, to dissuade them from further bloodshed.
He moistened his lips and played his last card.
"As you will, gentlemen," he said suavely, "It is for you to decide. But as a man of business, since your lordship has discounted any finer qualities in me, might I suggest that perhaps a memorandum of this meeting, a pledge to bind us together, would give adhesion to such a proposal. It is only natural, and in desperate straits where all must live or fall together, a prudent course to take."
Lovat gripped the edge of the table with his hands. This was a blow indeed. His face changed colour. He seemed for a moment to quiver as though he were icy cold, his head commencing to shake from side to side.
"I agree to that entirely," said Lochiel.
"No, no," came from Lovat in a whisper.
Murray watched him with all the relish of a weak man scoring a rare triumph.
"Did your lordship speak?" he asked.
"I did," said Lovat, rising to his strength again, "I see nothing but danger and needless formality in such proceedings. We are not men of business, Mr. Murray—we are Highland gentlemen."
It was a bold throw, but it won the hearts of many there, who hated Murray and his fiddling Lowland ways. Only Lochiel said nothing, swayed two ways at once, and ready to faint with the pain of his wound.
"I think," broke in Roy Stuart, "we should defer signing until we meet again."
"Bravely spoken," remarked Lovat, "let us meet with our men in ten days' time. I can promise three hundred Frasers, if not more."
They all rose at that and conferred together before parting, each one promising a regiment, and that word should go through the hills.
Only Murray stood alone, and only Murray saw a man enter with a package and hand it to Lovat. He watched the old man open it—he noted how he started and frowned. More than that, he read the sudden terror in his face.
"Bring that man back!" cried the Fraser, but none heard him (save Murray), and when he learned at last that the messenger was nowhere to be found he groaned and a kind of despair settled upon his face like a mask.
But the thing that puzzled Murray was the nature of the package. For it held no paper (that he could see) but only a strip of Fraser tartan, and that very stained in one corner like the discoloration of blood.
Now when Muckle John had heard the voice of Macaulay—or, to give him his real name, Captain Strange—approaching the tent, he had moved ever so slightly backward and loosened his dirk. The inevitable had happened, and he had played with fire too long. And so, when the officer hurried out to meet the new arrival, he did a number of things very quickly.
But the first was the cutting of the canvas farthest from the entrance. Then with a dive he was through, and with the tent between him and his enemies.
To the right of him, about a hundred yards distant, was a sentry, standing with his back turned, looking towards the hill opposite. On his left again were a group of red-coats off duty and playing cards.
To cross the open space and reach the slope unseen would seem impossible, and yet Muckle John did it, and what is more, took two hours about it, which in a period of acute danger might seem leisurely travelling.
What his quick eyes fell upon first was a horse grazing thirty yards away. But that he put out of his mind as too hazardous a risk. About half that distance away, however, a tussock of hay was lying—a loosely bound pile about eight feet long and four broad.
When Muckle John saw that he breathed again, and taking off his hat, he hurled it in the direction of the hay, then waited patiently. Fortunately, no one saw it skim into the air and drop upon the ground.
By this time Strange had roused the officer's indignation and then his alarm. He did exactly what any ordinary man would have done in the circumstances. He dashed into the tent—he saw the tear and peered quickly through it. But Muckle John was round the flap and unseen. Then, realizing that his late guest had bolted, he darted through the door of the tent again, and bawled the order to arms.
At that Muckle John moved like lightning. He did not dash for the tussock of hay; he knew that such an obvious place of refuge would attract them first. He quite softly re-entered the tent through the slit, and, crawling under the bedding on the floor, he watched the scurrying soldiers outside with keen and calculating eyes.
Half a dozen, headed by Campbell, charged the hay and turned it over and over. Then Strange, not satisfied with that, drove his sword into the midst of it, and poked and jabbed with extraordinary determination, at which Muckle John smiled and lay still. He had not to wait long, however, for the inevitable discovery of his hat sent them post-haste towards the heather and the rough country beyond, and saved a closer search nearer home, which was just what Muckle John had feared and planned to prevent.
Away went the soldiers with Strange and the little red-faced officer, and the camp, saving the sentries, was clear.
So the first onward move commenced. With a spring, Muckle John was through the slit, and darting over the intervening space, he reached the mangled tussock of hay and crawled beneath it. A rope bound it loosely together. Slipping between this and the hay, and trusting to luck that his boots were hid, he began to move in inches over the ground.
By the time the first soldiers passed wearily and footsore into camp, too hot and tired for further searching, he had covered twenty yards.
After them came Strange and the officer, deep in talk. They tramped past and all was quiet again. And then, to his profound dismay, two soldiers, late-comers from the pursuit, sank down upon the hay, and prepared to rest themselves.
"Uncommon 'ard this 'ay," said one of them.
"That it be, Silas—but likewise uncommon soft after 'eather," and one of them yawned and loosened his jacket.
"What wilt do with the youngster, think ye?" asked one.
"Shoot 'im at Fort Augustus," replied the other. "Heard Captain say as 'ow we march there to-morrow. Seems cruel t'shoot a mere shaver, Silas."
"It's not as if 'e was a Christian, belike, but only an 'Ighlander," replied Silas.
"That be so," answered the other, apparently reassured.
To Muckle John the information was of interest. But for the moment he was more anxious about the future.
Fortunately, the short afternoon was closing in, and a cold spring wind came blowing off the snow-topped hills. It set the soldiers shivering and stumbling camp wards. It also set Muckle John free and travelling slowly towards the rough land at the foot of the slope.
And then he thrust his head through the hay, like a tortoise out of its shell, and looked about him.
To his right stood a sentry, apparently dozing, To his left, another sentry, but marching to and fro to keep warm. Very patiently Muckle John waited for several things to happen. It was inevitable that darkness would fall soon, and that meant safety. It was also very probable that the increasing cold would send both sentries tramping up and down, and in that lay a chance to escape into the heather unseen.
But against these two probabilities was the stern fact that horses need fodder, and that every minute brought the search for the tussock of hay nearer.
Had Muckle John been the kind of man who, having exercised a maximum of caution, takes a minimum of risk through a very proper spirit, he would have made a run for it, and dodging the sentries' bullets, trusted to the twilight to cover his flight.
But Muckle John had a certain pride in these episodes. He liked to complete a piece of work like this—to leave at his own good pleasure; above all, not to give his enemies the empty satisfaction of knowing just how he had managed it. At that moment the sentry who dozed dropped his musket, and, hastily picking it up, tramped heavily up and down like his companion. There was just a space of five seconds exactly when both their heads were turned away from him.
Five times Muckle John tested it, leaving half a second for accidents and the half-turns at the corners.
Then drawing himself clear of the hay, he waited, crouching on his hands and knees. At last with a spring, he cleared the danger-spot, and was flat with the heather when the sentries turned again.
The next five seconds saw him thirty yards away, the next another forty, and then he fell to running with bent back—a shadow among shadows, until he was gathered into the darkness and was seen no more.
It was on the evening of the next day that Muckle John, travelling all night and resting by day, reached Inverness, and, muffling up his face, trod through the silent town and knocked at the door of Miss Macpherson. Inside all was utterly quiet, and for a moment he feared that she had gone.
But very slowly the door opened, and a pair of keen eyes looked into his face, while a nose like an eagle's beak was thrust forward as though on the point of striking.
"Wha's there?" she cried.
"Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John; "let me in, for I am spent, and this is no the place to exchange pleasantries..."
"Pleasantries indeed," she snorted. "Nothing was farther frae my mind," but she let him in for all that, and bolted the door.
Then, raising the rush-light, she stared into his face.
"Oh!" she cried, "and I thought so. Good evening, Mr. Muckle John, though no sae muckle in spirit as when last we met."
"No, madam—ye say true," he replied frowning at the fire-light.
"Tell me," said she, "before we go farther—what of Rob, the obstinate, dour body?"
Muckle John shifted his eyes.
"Maybe he's no been as fortunate as we could have wished," he said, slowly shaking his head.
"Dinna clash words wi' me!" she screamed. "Oot with it, ye Hieland cateran—what o' Rob—where is he—is he in prison?"
"No, no," cried Muckle John, "though maybe no so far off, either."
The hawk eyes were now fixed fiercely on him.
"What did ye come here for?" she cried. "What has kept your feet hammering the road for hours past? Was it just for the pleasure o' a crack wi' me? Oh, no, my man, there's a bonny tale behind your face," and she sat herself down, her chin resting on her hand.
With a shrug Muckle John told of the flight from Culloden (saying nothing of his part that day), and of the meeting on the shore of Arkaig, and the taking of Rob.
"He is meddling in business that I canna control," he said finally, "and so he's bound for Fort Augustus, and out of it he must come or my name's no Muckle John."
"Which is probably true," sniffed Miss Macpherson, "and no sae comforting as maybe ye intended."
He gloomed at her a moment without speaking.
"Mistress Macpherson," he said at last, "listen to me. When Rob is brought up in Fort Augustus, your friend Ephraim Macaulay, whose real name is Captain Strange and a notorious spy, will seek to prove that he was in arms at Culloden. They must prove that, to put the fear of death on him for reasons best left unsaid. Who will know Rob better than yersel', and who will come to the mind of Strange mair clearly? Should he be asked to travel south, be prepared in advance, for it rests wi' you whether Rob goes free or not."
"I always suspected yon Macaulay," remarked Miss Macpherson, "and his Scots was no what I call sound Edinburgh."
"He has muckle strings to his bow, and who can say what arrow may bring doon Rob? But when the message comes, Mistress Macpherson, dinna deny that ye ken Rob, for that will prove his guilt at once, for ithers can be found who will jump at the chance o' pleasing Strange. Mak' a lot of him, and when ye say good-bye to him in his cell, hand the man on guard a piece of siller, and shut the door. There is one I ken in the fort will be glad to do me a favour, and he will put Rob in one of the rooms overlooking the outer court."
"Go on, my man," said she; "I'm no slow in the uptak."
With a reddened face, Muckle John unloosened his jacket.
"Here," said he, "are one or two things that may serve our purpose," and he showed her a coil of slender rope, a file, a pistol, and a skian-dhu.
"They're a bonny lot," said she, "but I'm no just catching their connexion wi' mysel'."
"Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John, growing still redder in the face, "if ye could see your way to coiling this rope about your waist and concealing the other things, I think Rob is as good as safe."
For long she sat silent.
"Sir," she said, "I believe you are an honest man, though I was positive ye were a rogue until this very minute."
The face of Muckle John was, for once, a medley of expressions, with that of irritation uppermost.
"I hope so," he replied shortly, "but I'm no perfect, ye ken."
"Why do ye want Rob out so much? He is no kin o' yours?"
He uttered an exclamation of impatience.
"What matter," he cried irritably. "Should I save his neck, is not that enough? Maybe I have an affection for the boy. Maybe it is because we are fellow-sufferers in the Cause."
"And maybe," broke in Miss Macpherson, "it is none of these good reasons at all."
To which he answered nothing, but seemed on the point of bursting into a violent rage, and then he fell back on silence, as though he were bitterly offended.
"Mistress Macpherson," he said stiffly, "one thing I can swear to, and that is that I mean Rob no ill; and this I promise you: that if you do as I ask, I will answer for his ultimate escape and safety," and, whipping out his bared dirk, he prepared to take the oath.
"Whisht," said Miss Macpherson, "dinna behave like a play-actor; I'll do what you want, and gladly, for his mither's sake, puir woman. But ye said there is an outer courtyard. How will Rob manage to get over that?"
"He will not need to do so," said Muckle John, and rose to his feet.
Footsteps suddenly sounded on the street without. A loud knock came at the door—then another, and the noise of a horse's impatient hoofs thumped and clattered on the cobbles.
Like a vast shadow, Muckle John passed silently inside the other room, while Miss Macpherson drew back the bolts.
In the street was a trooper, holding a package in his hand.
"For Mistress Macpherson," said he, "from Captain Strange, now stationed at Fort Augustus," and, mounting again, he walked slowly up the street.
Inside, she tore open the paper. It requested her to travel to Fort Augustus at dawn.
Muckle John read what it was at a glance.
Then, gathering up his coat, he bowed, and, meeting her eyes for a moment, passed into the darkness of the street and was gone.
To Rob the world had suddenly fallen very hopeless and forlorn. By no conspiracy of Fate could matters have worked out more to his undoing. The precious paper entrusted to him by Dr. Cameron, full of he knew not what vital news and directions regarding the hidden treasure, had been stolen, but worse still by an unknown hand. It is comforting in a dreary way to know who has played the thief. But Rob had not even that poor satisfaction.
He had been taken asleep, and between that time and the journey to Fort Augustus the paper had mysteriously vanished. A horrible thought presented itself. Was it taken from him before he was bound by the soldiers? Muckle John had disappeared without a word or an effort to save him. He had half-heartedly hoped for a rescue on the road, but no sign of living soul had met his eyes.
And at last, at sunset, they had reached the Fort, and he was conducted to a guard-room and there left to his own thoughts.
Suddenly the door opened softly and the angular form of Captain Strange slid into the room. Rob started to his feet and waited in silence for him to speak.
But that Strange seemed in no hurry to do. Instead, he took to walking slowly up and down the room with his hands coiled behind his back and his chin sunk upon his chest.
Then, "Rob," said he, "what did I tell ye in Inverness?"
To which he received no reply. Rob had the rare gift of silence.
"Did I no tell ye that a gibbet was like enough to watch your capers before very long? Maybe ye've no seen a man hanged by the neck, Rob. It's no a bonny sight, say what you will; and in my way of thinking, no a pleasant prospect for onybody, least of all for a lad of spirit like yersel', Rob, for I'll no deny I admire your pluck," and he breathed heavily and stared out of the window.
"Did you come to talk about hanging?" asked Rob, struggling to speak with composure.
"In passing, Rob—merely in passing. It is a subject that fascinates me, I'll no deny. Come here a minute; ye can see the hanging-tree against the sky-line. It's a rare poseetion, Rob—there'll be nane will pass this way but will ask 'Who's dangling there?' and they'll learn it was Rob Fraser, executed for meddling with what didna concern him. It's a braw fool ye'll look, then, Rob—no great rebel dying for his principles, but just a silly laddie who ran a big risk for other people's dirty profit."
"You can call it what you will," cried Rob, stung to anger, and paused.
"Say your say, Rob; dinna be afraid," encouraged Strange softly.
Rob shut his lips seeing there was a trap being laid for him.
Perceiving that he would not speak, the other frowned a moment, then with an appearance of kindly sympathy he patted him upon the shoulder.
"Forget my foolish havers," he said. "I was only warning you for your ain good, for it's a dangerous game you're playing, Rob, and a game that you are playing in the dark. Will ye hear me out and say if what I'm telling ye is no true," and he drew a stool near to the boy.
"Let me run over your movements for the last week or so," he went on. "After Culloden—and ye mind I did my best to save ye that night in Inverness—you came to Lovat's country, and thence down to Arkaig. There you met Cameron and buried the gold. There also you escaped out of our hands, and I'll grant no so clumsily, though you were not to blame for that. Then, accompanied by the desperate man ye ken as Muckle John, you made to the north and were captured yesterday in Captain Campbell's camp. Now, Rob, is that no the truth?"
"It is," said Rob, "though what you have to say against Muckle John should be kept for his own ear. It is wasted on mine."
"Brawly said, Rob, but what do ye ken o' this Muckle John? However, that can keep. I'd wager ye'd turn white did ye ken who Muckle John really is. But when you left Cameron you had a paper, Rob. Supposing that paper fell into our hands, Rob, or those of the Duke, what would happen, think ye? There would be no gold for your Prince, and from the information in the letter—supposing there should be any, which I am assured there is—there would be such a clearing of Jacobites, including the Pretender, as would end their cause for ever. That is, I repeat, supposing such a paper fell into the hands of the Duke. But there are those, Rob, who are Scotch after all, and no verra partial to such measures. There are mony, Rob, who do nane so badly oot of your Jacobite friends, and it's poor shooting where there's no game," and he smiled very knowingly, baring his teeth like a fox.
Rob was puzzled by the note of suggestion in his speech. Had Strange the map or not? If not, had Muckle John taken it? If Strange had it what was to be gained by such words? Would he not take it to the Duke at once?
He glanced quickly at the man facing him. In his eyes he read avarice, cruelty, and cunning.
"If I hand you the paper," said Rob, "what do you propose to do? Would you give it to the Duke?"
Strange checked a smile.
"That depends," said he, "for between ourselves, where the eagle feeds there's poor pickings for the other birds. The truth is, Rob, there are some things you could tell me, and in return I'd do a deal more for you, for I am no an ungenerous man, and it's a dreary prospect, the gibbet."
"It is all that," rejoined Rob, "but I cannot promise until I hear what you want to know."
"That's mair reasonable, Rob—I knew ye were not the foolish ninny that they took ye for. Now listen, Rob; if you will disclose the hiding-place of Lovat and Archibald Cameron, and help us to lay Muckle John by the heels—in return I will see that you are free this very night, and mair, I will no forget ye when the treasure is come to light o' day."
Rob turned sick at the words, but to learn more he simulated interest and nodded his head doubtfully.
"But the Prince," said he.
"In return for Lovat I will spare the Prince."
"You?"
"Who else, for if you consent none but I will ever see the document and its particulars."
"And you will keep the gold?"
Strange winked at that.
"We two, Rob," said he with a smile.
Then Rob, knowing all and realizing that Muckle John must have the dispatch, rose to his feet.
"Whether I have been a scapegoat or not," he said, "I have only myself to blame; and let me tell you at once, Captain Strange or Macaulay, or whatever your dirty name may be, that nothing can save me from the hangman's noose; neither you with all your promises nor anything else, for I have not the paper you want," and he waited for the storm to burst.
But the smile never died from the other's lips.
"Weel I know that, Rob," said he, "for I have it safe here," and he drew the package, still sealed, from his coat pocket.
With a cry of rage Rob rushed at him, but the chains about his legs tripped him up, and Strange, stepping aside with a snarl, took him by the shoulder and flung him violently to the other end of the room.
"Down!" he cried, "or I will pistol you." In a grim silence he thrust the package back into his pocket.
"Ye see, I hold the cards," he said in a malignant voice. "And now is it to be a dislocated neck and your dead body the prey of corbies—or the salvation of your Prince, a share in the gold, and the taking of Lovat, which is inevitable in any case, and that of Cameron, which is only a question of time? Neither will suffer the extreme penalty, for Lovat is an old man who has sat at home, and Cameron is a doctor and was no at Culloden at all. As for Muckle John, I will tell ye why he made such a lot o' ye."
"No, no!" cried Rob.
"Whisht! Dinna take on so. Once a blind fool and never again, surely. But did ye think Muckle John risked his life just for love o' ye, Rob? Heaven preserve us—he was after..."
"I know," said Rob, "but say no more. I'll tell the Duke you have the paper and throw myself on his mercy."
Strange uttered a shrill cackle of laughter.
"Tell the Duke, Rob! Oh, that's fine hearing. Mercy! It's little mercy ye'll get frae him. No, no! I'll hand it him myself, thank ye. Perhaps ye thought I was like your Muckle John, and playing for my ain hand. You're uncommon green, Rob, but Jerry Strange is no taken so doucely. Jerry is honest as the day, Rob—so come along and see me hand it into the Duke's royal fingers. It'll mak' gran' hearing, Rob, and there'll be sair confusion amongst the rebels now," and flinging open the door he drew his prisoner with him into the passage.