Into a lofty room they went—the chains clanking about Rob's legs very dismally.
A short, red-faced, stout young man of about twenty-five was sitting at a table reading dispatches. He was dressed in a red coat, with stars upon his breast and much gold cord. He wore a white peruke, and had a choleric, somewhat peevish countenance and a hard blue eye. There was nothing romantic or attractive in his commonplace features or sturdy, clumsy figure. His countenance displayed neither humour nor kindliness, and certainly not beauty—but only determination, courage, and common sense in abundance. It would have been difficult, indeed, to have laid hands on a young man so different in every way from his rival Charles Edward. It almost seemed that Justice had given him victory to compensate him for the odium of his personality.
"Vell, Strange," said he, speaking with a thick German accent, "what is it?"
"Your Highness," replied Strange, "I have here a notorious rebel, though young as ye see. But he was carrying a package which Archibald Cameron handed to him on the shores of Arkaig to deliver to the Pretender. I have reasons for believing, your Highness, that it contains not only a plan of where the treasure be hid, but also the place of concealment of the Prince and the movements of the Jacobites still at liberty. We have followed him according to our instructions."
The Duke of Cumberland stared at Rob, then leapt to his feet.
"Goot, Strange," said he, smacking his lips audibly, "you are a vonder. You vill not be forgotten, my man," and he ripped open the seal and unwrapped the paper.
Rob could see that there was more paper than he had thought. But what made his heart bound with sudden hope was the bewildered expression upon the Duke's face.
"Is zis a joke, Strange?" he shouted, at last, flinging a sheaf of papers upon the floor. "Those," said he in a white heat of fury, "are accounts of charges for drugs. And zis," he added in a roar of anger, holding a scrap with the tips of his fingers, "has ze impertinence to say 'this is no ze goose that laid ze golden egg.'"
In the utter silence Rob laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. And all the time Cumberland glared at Strange, and the latter stood with an utterly vacant expression, as though he had opened his mouth to say something and then clean forgotten what it was.
Suddenly the Duke turned with a scream of fury upon Rob.
"To-morrow," he cried, his face livid with passion, "ve vill see 'ow you laugh on the gibbet," and he stormed on Strange to go, turning his back upon them both.
But Rob did not move.
"On what charge am I condemned?" he asked.
The Duke switched round.
"Charge!" he cried, and then paused. "Strange, what is the charge?" he asked, stamping his foot.
"It was for carrying treasonable matter," replied Strange in a husky voice; "but I suppose..."
"There was nothing against the throne in the package," broke in Rob.
"Strange," shouted the Duke, "am I to wrangle with a school boy? Is 'e not a rebel?"
"He is, your Highness. He was in arms at Culloden."
"Zen surely that is enough to 'ang any man."
"You have no witnesses," retorted Rob.
"Zen find vitnesses. Himmel!—make vitnesses!" broke out the Duke, seating himself again at the table. "But go, Strange, before I burst—and 'old—come back in half an hour. I would talk with you over this and other matters."
In his cell Rob could have wept for joy had he been given to that sort of thing. For he realized that though he had been the goose who had drawn off the pursuit from Cameron, the Prince was safe, and that the gold would yet be his.
In this elation of feeling he crossed slowly to the window. The last rays of the sun were falling upon the blank bars of the gibbet, at which he felt his heart sink, for it was a cold and melancholy ending to his ambitions and his life.
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour later a trooper clattered out of the courtyard of Fort Augustus, bound for Inverness and Miss Macpherson; and in due course Captain Strange knocked upon the door of the Duke's room and entered. In the intervening hour the latter had dined, and appeared somewhat mollified in temper.
Indeed, there were those who said the Duke of Cumberland was genial enough at heart, and though a hard man, one with a sense of justice and honour. He has had few kindly words and many harsh ones, and there is a saying that there is good in every man. As a German prince he had no sympathy with the Jacobites. To him they were savage rebels speaking a barbarous language and wearing a barbarous dress, about whom he knew nothing except the misrepresentations that were current in England.
"Oh, Strange, Strange," he laughed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, "who is ze goose now, and where are ze golden eggs?"
"Your Highness," said Strange flushing, "it is humiliating, I'll allow, but I must tell you that I was mair than unfortunate, being bound hand and foot by Cameron and no knowing just what had taken place. Cameron made good his escape, for my men were of his ain clan and not anxious to bring dishonour on their name if another would do as well. That he foresaw, I'll be bound, and so he sent this boy at a run with a package, and the presence o' Muckle John lent him additional importance."
"Oh, vell," said the Duke, "but ve must bring the boy to his senses, Strange. Produce your vitnesses, and he'll show us things, I'll be bound. Vot does he know, Strange? Can he tell us any ting?"
"He knows where Lovat is hid, your Highness, and ye ken what his capture will mean. It will show the rebels we have long arms."
"True—but vill he tell, Strange?"
"A week or two by himsel' will work wonders, your Highness, once he knows we can hang him."
"And Muckle John?"
Strange bit his lip.
"Would I could have taken him," he said bitterly.
"Your chance vill come, Strange. Ze net is closing. Soon ve vill 'ave ze Pretender, and zen all ze smaller fry vill be caught too—" he yawned and pushed back his chair—"I am sick to death of zis country," he said; "it is always rain, rain, rain, and nosings to eat or drink."
And so Strange left him looking gloomily out of the window upon the black Highland hills.
Dawn found Rob watching at the window. Into the night his eyes had stared until the cold wind before the grey light of day fell upon his face. Vast forms moved dimly into sight. Hills stood up gradually against the ashen sky. Trees formed in vague, black columns, with their trunks half hidden in mist.
Suddenly a faint, pink glow flushed the pearly grey with colour, and in an instant the valley grew distinct. The sun rose and sent the dew glistening like a thousand twinkling diamonds, then, passing higher, flooded the Fort with yellow light, and threw the black shadow of the gallows-tree upon the ground.
With a sigh, Rob turned and seated himself upon his bed, waiting for the end.
But hours passed and no one came. He heard the sharp words of command from the drilling-square below, and the grounding of arms as the soldiers stood at attention. Outside, a man whistled cheerfully, and that reminded him of Muckle John. Surely he would not desert him! Did he not pride himself on always finding a way? Rob remembered, with a wry smile, that the only way he had found two days before had been for himself. He took to wondering what Cameron would say when he heard (if he should ever hear, which was not so likely) how ill his joke had treated his messenger. He took a doleful satisfaction in imagining him greatly disturbed at having sent him to his death.
At that moment footsteps sounded along the corridor, and the key of the door was turned.
Into the room stepped Captain Strange.
"Poor Rob," he said with a grin, "you're like a ghost. No used your bed? Come, come, I thought better of you than that. Not afraid, are you, Rob?"
"If I were afraid I would do what you want, but you will never have that satisfaction."
"Never is a strong word, Rob. I would not use that word to the Duke, boy..."
"He can hang me, but it will be without a fair trial."
Strange leaned his arm upon the window ledge.
"Wrong again; there will be a fair trial, Rob," he said without turning his head, "and that this very day. It is more than many another has had—and that's the truth."
"What can you prove against me?"
"I have a witness, Rob, who will tell us all about you. What do you say to that?"
"That you lie."
Strange switched about, and his face hardened.
"Come then," he cried angrily, and led the way from the room.
With a sudden foreboding of danger Rob rose, and the door clanged behind him. If, in a single night, they had found a witness his doom was complete. And yet, what witness could they have discovered?
Down to the great place where they had gone the preceding night Strange took him. Outside the door stood two soldiers with muskets. Passing between them, the heavy door shut silently behind. Facing Rob sat the Duke of Cumberland, alone.
Hastily he looked round the room. No other person, witness or otherwise, was to be seen.
"Prisoner," rasped out the Duke, "are you villing to give us informations regarding certain rebels?"
"I am not," said Rob.
"Zen vot prevents us from hanging you?"
"On what charge?"
"As a rebel."
"You know nothing against me," said Rob, gaining courage.
"But we 'ave a vitness who does," said the Duke.
Then rising, he opened a little door that lay behind his chair, and stood to one side to let some one pass into the room.
And very slowly, her head in the air, came Miss Macpherson. Rob felt his heart give a great thump, and then he grew cold as ice, for he knew, whether she wished to harm him or no, that his aunt was bound to recognize him.
Strange advanced to meet her.
"Mistress Macpherson," he said, "you remember me?"
"Aye," she replied drily, "I know ye fine, though we met last in more reputable circumstances."
"Alas!" he smiled, "duty is a hard master."
The Duke burst in at that.
"Madam," he cried, "ees zis boy known to you or nod?"
"Your Highness," she replied, looking Rob squarely in the eyes, "this is my wretched nephew."
With a bitter look of mortification and fury, Rob turned his back on them.
"Vas 'e in arms against ze throne?" asked the Duke.
"He was all that," she replied grimly, and Strange rubbed his hands with joy. This was beyond all expectation.
"But, madam," went on the Duke, "you know vot zis means." He was evidently puzzled by her equanimity.
"Thrawn necks are too common at present to be overlooked," she replied drily.
He nodded, understanding her dimly.
"Zen dere is noding more to be said," he remarked, and said something in Strange's ear, who touching Rob upon the shoulder led him away to his cell, where he was left to his own dismal thoughts.
Returning, Strange begged Miss Macpherson to be seated, and again whispered into the Duke's ear, who nodded from time to time, and smiled sleepily.
"As you vill, Strange," he said, and rising, withdrew.
"Now, Miss Macpherson," began Strange when they were alone, "I knew I could rely upon you to put even the claims of relationship aside, when it was a question of loyalty."
"Go on, my man," said she impatiently; "I'm no here to listen to patriotic sentiments."
"Exactly. Now this is how the matter stands. Rob is convicted as a rebel, and there's only one solution to that. We agreed from the start that he was fated for a quick finish. But he's young, Miss Macpherson, and your own blood."
"No blood of mine," she said sharply. "What my poor sister did is no affair of mine."
"At any rate, it would not look well for you to have led to the lad's death."
Miss Macpherson's lips tightened, but she said nothing.
"And there are ways and means. All this fuss over a boy is not according to reason, much less the Duke's usual procedure. But Rob knows some things that his Highness is ready to hear in exchange for his life. More than that, he will deal generously with him."
"What things?" asked Miss Macpherson, shortly.
"Where Lovat hides, for instance. And, mark you, it will make no difference in the end. In a fortnight's time we shall drive the upper end of Loch Arkaig, where we hear he is concealed. But we are not sure, and a word from Rob would help us. That is hardly treachery, Miss Macpherson, is it?"
"I never had a legal head," she replied, with an utterly expressionless countenance.
Strange rose, and walked twice up and down the room.
"Persuade Rob to act reasonably," he went on, "and you will have his ultimate gratitude, and, what is more, that of the Duke as well. Will you help us?"
"I'll see Rob," she replied.
"Thank you..."
"But only on two conditions."
"Yes?"
"That I see him alone, and that he has a fair week to think it over."
Strange hesitated.
"Your first condition is, of course, simple," he replied, "but the second is more difficult." And he hurried from the room.
In a minute or two he returned,
"The Duke agrees," he said; "and now, please, follow me."
They passed through the corridor up the stairs. Then, opening the door of Rob's cell, Strange bowed her in, and, closing it, turned the key. Rob was lying face downwards upon the bed; he never lifted his head as she entered, and so she paused and listened at the keyhole until the footsteps had died away.
Then, "Rob," she called, and fell upon her knees by the bedside.
He raised his face and looked at her with sullen anger.
"What do you want with me?" he asked.
But for answer she placed her finger on her lips, and drew a file and pistol from her pocket.
"Hide them," she whispered. When he had done so, in a dream, and turned his head, a coil of rope was lying on the ground, and his aunt was rebuttoning her coat.
"Tak' it, Rob," she said. "Wake up, lad."
Suddenly hope sprang to his eyes. With a leap he was off the bed, and the rope was below the hay upon which he lay.
"Oh, aunt," he said, "I did not understand."
"Tuts," she replied. "Now, hark ye, Rob, for there's muckle to grasp. Yon Muckle John came to me last night, and sent me here with the things ye have. He also sent this letter," and she fumbled for a moment in her pocket, and handed over a slip of paper to him.
"Read it by-and-by," she said, "but first listen here. They will no hang ye for a week—that's sure as death, and it's yon old Lovat that they are after. They will search upper Loch Arkaig in a fortnight, but they would do it sooner were they to ken just what you know. Belike, Rob, if ye told them ye would win free, and in the meantime the word could reach Lovat to seek another place."
"No," said Rob, "that I could not do. Suppose he were too ill to escape, or the message strayed?"
"Then, Rob, there is Muckle John, and he has a way, he says, though I canna believe in it mysel'. But the letter from him will show you."
Rob drew the paper out, and read it in silence. It ran:
"DEAR ROB,—When ye hear a whustle such as ye ken, do as I say. File through the bars of your window and your chains should you have any and lower yoursel down into the outer yard where a cart with hay will be lying. When dawn breaks the cart will move out but it will not be searched for reasons that I will not say. Should ye have anything to entrust to me in case of accident give it to Mistress Macpherson, who is our good friend."—M.J.
It was the last sentence that sent the blood into Rob's cheeks.
"Do you know why Muckle John is so anxious regarding my safety?" he asked his aunt.
"No," she replied with a troubled frown, "though I asked him."
"Did he reply?"
"Not he, but he was sair put about."
Rob went over to the window, and laid his head upon his arm. A deep despondency had suddenly fallen upon him. That Muckle John was only interested in the suppositious plan of the treasure seemed only too apparent. It was to obtain this that he schemed and planned. His own safety and life were trifles in comparison. Enemies within and enemies without, and all fashed about a plan that did not exist.
A sudden determination came to him.
Taking a pencil from his pocket, he took up Muckle John's letter, tore off the part which contained the reference to the treasure and wrote upon the back:
"This to tell you that what you seek has fallen into the hands of the Duke."
Then folding it up, he handed it to his aunt.
"Give that to Muckle John," he said.
Miss Macpherson scrutinized his face closely.
"Rob," she asked, "ye will do what the letter tells ye? This is no enviable position for any Highland woman, Rob, and I took for granted that no false pride would prevent you from making good your escape."
"I have not refused," he replied.
A look of relief sprang into her face.
"Then good-bye," she said with unusual warmth.
For a moment they stood hand in hand, and then she knocked upon the locked door, and waited for Strange to come.
When it fell back, she passed from sight without a backward glance.
For long Rob paced up and down the room.
But of a sudden he stopped, and, uttering a sharp cry, rushed half-way to the door. For long he shouted, banging with his fists upon the wood. It was too late.
That Lovat would be discovered had suddenly forced itself upon him, and that he would be regarded as his betrayer would naturally follow. For now, through his own foolish pride, he had thrown away the only chance of saving the old man, by rejecting the help of Muckle John.
Miss Macpherson, saying good-bye to Captain Strange, and acquainting him of Rob's present obstinacy, but bidding him not to despair, took her way through the porter's gates, and turned her horse's head towards the north. After travelling in a leisurely manner for some six miles, she drew in her beast, and dismounting led him into a small coppice upon the hill-side.
All around her lay the lifeless stretches of heather and grey crag. Near her side gurgled a little stream passing through the trees and down the vacant, wine-red moor. Behind her the stark, open slope of brae, around her the huddle of lonely hills, and no sound at all.
The softest noise, like the rustle of an autumn leaf, made her turn her head. Within a few feet of her, regarding her keenly, stood Muckle John. Where he had come from, and how he had come, she did not attempt to guess.
"Well," said he, "and how's Mistress Macpherson the day?"
"Finely."
"And the little business?"
"Is completed."
"Good!" he said, and smiled with great good humour.
"I handed Rob your letter."
"And did he tak' my meaning?"
"He said I was to thank ye, and give ye this bit o' paper, which he tore from your message."
His mouth tightened suddenly. A slight frown wrinkled his brow, and his eyes flickered quickly upon her, and then to the paper in her hand.
Suddenly, as though a nameless fear had gripped him, he glowered at her, and snatched the thing out of her fingers. Then, turning his back, he read it at a glance, and, flinging it upon the ground, burst into a torrent of Gaelic, his face a deep scarlet with fury. His unruffled composure was gone. In its place was the blazing Highland temper. Words poured from his lips, his eyes flashed with impotent rage, his whole body trembled with passion.
"Are you ill, sir?" cried Miss Macpherson, fearing he had gone mad.
But he only snarled at her. Then, swinging about, he began to stride backwards and forwards between the trees, muttering in low tones, his hands clenched, and his chin upon his chest. After a dozen turns in this fashion he seemed to recollect her presence and, halting a little below her, he raised his gleaming eyes to hers.
"Madam," he said, in a trembling, harsh tone, "I would give all I possess that you and your precious nephew had never seen the light of day. Oh—it is too much!" He broke off, kicking savagely at a tuft of grass.
"But, sir..." she broke in, for once considerably alarmed.
"Don't sir me!" raved Muckle John, snapping her up. "But go, and let me never see your face again!"
"But Rob?"
"The sly ninny! The whey-faced, ungrateful gowk! Let him go hang for his ain dourness! A pretty fool he has made o' me, madam; and no man nor boy either shall live to fling that in my teeth."
With the strength of a sudden terror she caught him by the arm.
"What sort of talk is this?" she cried. "Have I no done my share, and sent Rob half-way to his death in order that you may snatch him back? Oh, I said you were no honest man!"
"Honest?" he snapped, with a bitter laugh. "Oh, you're right enough there. Heaven preserve me frae being called 'honest,' I'm no shopkeeper, madam."
"Ye were anxious enough about Rob's safety last night."
Muckle John ceased from glowering at the glen beneath them.
"The boy's safety go hang," he retorted. "Did ye think I cared two bawbees for that?"
"It has occurred to me that you promised," returned Miss Macpherson.
"Promised! What are promises between you and me?"
"Then Rob is to be left to his fate?"
"No."
"What do you mean?"
Muckle John turned, and threw back his shoulders.
"You have yet to learn," he said stiffly, "that the oath of a Highland gentleman can never be broken. I swore on the dirk I would bring him safe from prison, and that I will do."
Once more he seemed on the point of falling into another fit of fury; but fought it down, and pointed instead to her horse.
"Go!" he cried. "And not a word of this or I'll string you up to your ain roof-tree, and no' so sorry to have the excuse."
"Mercy me!" murmured Miss Macpherson, and made for her beast.
Then, mounting, she sent him through the heather towards the track.
A hundred yards down the hill-side she looked back. But the little cluster of trees was empty of life. Muckle John had vanished as though he had never been. With a sudden fear clutching at her heart, she dug her heels into the horse's ribs, and broke into a disjointed canter.
On the same morning that saw Miss Macpherson urging her mount towards Inverness, in a cave upon a wild and desolate mountain-top three men were seated playing a hand of cards. They were all in the Highland dress, and armed to the teeth—lean, swarthy men, burned by the sun to a deep black-red—sitting silent as statues, eyes intent upon the game. Beside one of them lay a handful of gold coins. Near the mouth of the cave, lying on his stomach, was a boy of about fifteen, watching the hill-side.
Suddenly he uttered a low word in Gaelic, and instantly but in the same grave silence the men ended their play, and gathering up the cards one slipped them into his sporran.
A moment later the mouth of the cave darkened and the huge form of Muckle John filled the entrance. He nodded to each of them as they saluted him, and motioning them to be seated he lay for a long time gnawing his lip and staring gloomily upon the ground. They appeared not unused to such behaviour for they drew together at the farthest corner and the man with the cards in his sporran took them out again and, dealing them round, the game went on as before. An hour passed and Muckle John had said no word—had made no sign. Of a sudden, however, a slow smile began to creep into his eyes and soften the corners of his mouth. A droll expression flitted across his face and vanished.
Then, taking a piece of clean paper from his pocket, and a pencil, he studied Rob's writing in a deep pause, and began to write in a close imitation, as follows:
"This to tell you that the treasure is discovered, and that unless it be put in a safe place, all will be lost. The bearer of this letter can be trusted. Come to me at a place that this man will show you, for the Prince is with me, and is in need of you and some gold. ROB FRASER."
This he addressed to Dr. Archibald Cameron in the Braes of Lochaber, and turning towards the crouching circle in the corner, he called one of them, Donald Grant by name, to him, and instructed him for some time in a very earnest voice.
"Listen, Donald," he said, "and let there be no bungling, for I am not minded to be soft-spoken if aught goes wrong. In Lochaber there lies a gentleman by name Archibald Cameron—a brother to Lochiel. He is skulking with Murray of Broughton. I heard so much two days since. Hand him this paper and keep a slow tongue, but if he presses you say you were sent by a laddie—a reddish, blue-eyed Fraser boy, and that maybe he minds the words—'there's a muirfowl snared.' Bring him with you and keep him under close guard until I come back. But before you do that, give this second strip of tartan to John Murray of Broughton, and bid him hand it to Lord Lovat as a warning from one he kens well."
With these words he dismissed the man, who slid through the entrance and set out at a slow indefatigable trot for the south.
In the same active, masterful manner he summoned the remainder of the party and addressed them rapidly in Gaelic.
"Now," said he at last, "is all clear? Evan Grant, who is in the stables of Fort Augustus, will see that the cart is ready. When the confusion is at its height he will put in the horse. You, Donald Chisholm, will lead the horses below the rampart during the night and mind they do not whinny at the dawn. There I will join you at cock-crow and a boy with me that will serve our purpose. He is like enough to another I ken of to hoodwink a pack of red-coats. Should aught go wrong make for the hills, and turn the beasts loose. Should they be deceived as I know they will, lead them into bog-land and scatter. You understand?"
They all nodded their heads.
"This day week then, for I have other work till then. Now go—but leave the lad there to watch the glen."
Silently they crawled out of the cave-mouth, and were lost among the neighbouring rocks.
Then, wrapping himself in his great-coat, Muckle John took the reed from his pocket and began to play a Skye song that the oarsmen sing for keeping time. But soon he tired of that and played an old Highland lament that is as full of sorrow as the hollow of the hills with snow. He played it in a heart-breaking fashion with an eye upon the boy in the cave-mouth, who was a Macpherson and easily moved. And when he saw the tears coursing down his brown cheeks he could not but gulp too, partly through sympathy but most of all because of his own grand playing.
It was now the month of May, and still Rob lay in his cell. During the past ten days every source of refined torture had been applied to break down his silence. Starved, beaten, threatened, he maintained a stony front, until Strange in despair had left him to himself for two whole days. It was on the morning of the third day that he returned, and Rob saw by the elation in his eyes that something had happened. He could only guess that it meant another disaster to the hunted Jacobites.
"Up, you dog!" he cried; "and hear the news. What has your silence earned you, do you think? It has made you a traitor, Master Rob Fraser—a name that your clan will revile for all time. Ho, ho, ho! Think of that now—there's fame for ye! I'd give twenty guineas to hear what Lovat says when he learns that he was betrayed by..."
"Stop!" cried Rob, "why should he believe such a lie?"
"Because we shall have to break it to him. Otherwise he might guess who is really telling secrets, Rob, and that would spoil all."
With a mournful groan, the boy covered his face with his hands.
"Why do you not kill me now?" he asked in a hopeless voice.
"Kill you?" echoed Strange. "Man alive, there'd be poor sense in that! It is just because we will not hang ye that people will know just why. No, no, Rob. You'll live like a fighting-cock, whether ye like it or no."
"It will take more than you to find Lord Lovat," broke out Rob.
Strange shook his head gleefully.
"Shall I whisper where he lies hid?" he said. "There's an island at the foot of Arkaig, called Moror—am I no right?" and he shook with silent laughter.
At that the floor beneath Rob's feet seemed to dance up and down, and a great despair made him deaf to all that Strange said—deaf to the shutting of the door—to the brooding silence that settled once again upon his solitude.
When he opened his eyes the sun was sinking, and he was alone. The bitterness of the situation stunned him utterly. How could anyone deny that he had turned informer, especially when the report went round that it was to save his life. He thought he had valued his neck; but now he knew there were things infinitely worse than death. What would he not give now to have lured on Muckle John, and so won his freedom by pretending he had the plan?
And as he brooded deeply, out of the twilight, like a bird's note dropping into silence, came the soft music of a chanter. With a cry he started to his feet and listened.
Again it reached him—a thin bar of wistful melody, the sign of Muckle John.
Snatching up his bonnet he waved it out of the narrow window, and at that the whistle sounded for the last time far away, and died on the wind. Muckle John was ready. Hastily Rob took out the file and pistol, and laid them upon the floor. There was little chance that anyone would visit him again that night. He had eight hours before him to file through the bars of his cell, and conceal himself, just before the dawn, upon the cart of hay below. His chains he had already filed nearly through, concealing the marks with mud scraped off the damp floor of his cell.
But in case of a surprise visit he left his chains on, and set upon the rusty bars of the window, scraping and rasping until his fingers began to peel and bleed, and his arms ached with weariness. At midnight one bar was filed through and laid inside the cell. Weak and dizzy with want of food and exercise, he was forced to rest for half an hour, and then, crawling back, he attacked the cross-bar; and two hours later he had cut it away, and the main part of the work was done. It took him only a few minutes to work himself loose of his chains.
Then, uncoiling the rope, he tied one end to the fragment of iron bar left in the window casement, and unwinding it softly he let it run down the rough, grey wall.
All was very quiet and dark. No sound reached him from below. Far away, on the outer guard, he caught the dull tramp of the sentry, marching to and fro in the wintry darkness.
The time was ripe. Slipping his pistol about his waist, Rob wormed his way, legs first, through the open window, and coiling his feet about the rope, he took a grip of it with his hands and began to slide slowly downwards.
Down, down he went; past rooms where all was dark, skinning his knees upon the sharp edges of stone, bumping and swaying, but nearing ground at every yard, and with the breath of sweet night air upon his cheek.
And so at last, without misadventure, he reached the inner courtyard, and looked about for the cart of hay.
The dawn was not far distant now, and he crept about the place feeling his way, seeing but dimly, and fearful that there was no cart at all.
At last, however, some ten yards away, his hand touched a wheel. With a gasp of relief he ran his fingers through soft wisps of hay over his head. Then climbing up, he wormed his way beneath a bundle of horse-cloths, and waited for the morning.
The cart had apparently unloaded and was ready to leave the fort. Fortunately for Rob the cloths were heavy, and the horses' nose-bags and other articles made sufficient to entirely conceal his presence. But how Muckle John could hope to avert suspicion falling on such an obvious place of concealment, he could not imagine.
Very gradually the grey, flickering lights of another day glimmered above the fort, and still there was no sound of alarm—no sign of Muckle John.
Now the side of the fort where Rob's cell lay was not much frequented until broad daylight, the sentry rarely coming so far along—an item with which Muckle John was well acquainted. Opposite this part the hill sloped upwards towards broken country, commanding a clear view from the walls.
It was not until seven o'clock, for the morning was dark and cold, that a man passing through the inner courtyard to water the horses saw the rope dangling down the wall, and with a frenzied shout brought the sentry at a run towards him.
"Prisoner escaped!" yelled the fellow.
With an answering cry the sentry raced away. A moment later a bugle sounded the call to arms. Clatter of muskets, hoarse voices, commands, questions, running footsteps—all the characteristic commotion of a sudden alarm—reached Rob in his hiding-place, and set him wondering whether Muckle John had failed him, or whether he had dreamed he heard the reed.
For his position was precarious. He had escaped for the time; but he was like a rat in a trap—able neither to go backwards nor forwards.
The voice of Strange interrupted his anxious thoughts.
"Guard the gates!" he ordered. "Come with me, you men, and search the cell." Up the stairs they stamped and their footsteps died away.
Rob imagined them tearing up the stone steps to his cell. He could almost see Strange peering through the window with its filed bars.
Suddenly he heard him shout from far above him as though his head were thrust out of the window:
"There he is! There he is!" It sent a shiver through his limbs.
But no one approached the cart.
Instead, the excitement grew even more intense, and the courtyard about the cart became thronged with hurrying soldiers. On the outer walls he heard muskets firing, and cries of "There they go!" as though they aimed at men upon the hill. It was all very baffling and mysterious.
Was Muckle John attempting a rescue by force of arms? Rob lay very still, and then his perplexity was set at ease, for he heard a voice he knew well call from a window some twenty feet above him:
"Vot is it, Strange?" and Strange, despite his hurry replied:
"The prisoner, Rob Fraser, your Highness, is riding away up the hill with another man."
"Then after 'im, Strange!" roared the Duke. "Ten pounds to the man who catches 'im. Open the gates; I vill take 'orse myself!"
With a rattle the gates rolled back. The soldiers galloped through, Strange at their head. A few moments later and troopers were spurring up the hill-side—the whole fort was deserted for such a steeplechase. Ten pounds seemed within the grasp of many that day.
The last trooper had hardly dashed away before a man came quickly across the courtyard leading a heavy horse. With swift hands he hitched it to the wagon, and, swinging himself up on the side with his feet upon Rob, he started towards the gates.
A solitary soldier challenged him with a broad grin.
"No rebels in that cart?" he said, peeping over the top.
The man in the cart laughed heartily.
"He was more than a match for you," he replied.
"That 'e was," agreed the soldier. "But 'ow anyone can get out of this fort beats me. Somebody will look foolish over this."
"Be glad it is not you," returned the man in the cart.
"Me?" cried the other, for they were now twenty yards down the road. "There'd be few rebels lost if I had a word in it."
"I can see that," shouted back the man in the cart.
And so they passed along the moorside, and out of sight of the fort.
Half an hour later they encountered the soldiers returning.
"Not got him?" asked the man in the cart.
A sergeant stopped while the rest of them trudged on.
"No; they left their horses and took to the crags."
"Where are the dragoons?"
"Led into a bog, and still there."
Then, shaking his head, the soldier marched after his company.
Long after Rob threw back the rugs, and sitting up blinked in the sunlight.
"Well, Rob," said the man in the cart, but with little warmth of manner.
It was Muckle John!
Now the man that Muckle John had sent speeding from the cave-mouth to the south reached northern Lochaber, and halting in a place under a rock, waited for the dawn.
Very slowly the wintry night began to grow more grey. A cold wind fluttered the beard of the watcher under the rock. From the bleak hill-side a dog-fox barked, and with the passing of night a stag moved like a shadow up the brae and stood for a moment gazing backward, silhouetted against the skyline.
And still the man waited, watching the track below him. It must have been about seven o'clock, and the sun barely risen, when down the glen came two men walking very rapidly and saying no word to one another. Foremost came a short, strongly built man with a round, genial countenance and shrewd blue eyes. About four paces behind again there limped and tottered a broken cadaverous figure, heavily cloaked and yet coughing dismally in the bleak Highland air, and leaning his weight upon a stick.
All the way down the glen they never exchanged a word; but once the man who led the way halted, and drawing a flask from his pocket handed it to his companion, who tilted it up and then broke into a worse fit of coughing than before.
The messenger of Muckle John snug under the crag took them in with one long, penetrating glance, but no expression of surprise or triumph or relief crossed his face. He regarded them, as he had regarded the stag, with cold, inscrutable eyes.
Through the hanging mists they came, and when they had drawn level with his place of concealment he uttered a forlorn cry—such as the whaup sends falling over an empty moor. Instantly the little man who walked in front stopped in his stride, and sent his eyes sweeping the skyline above his head. But no whaup was there. Then turning he said a word to his companion, who only shook his head wearily, as though all the whaups in Scotland might have cried themselves hoarse for all he cared.
Presently the man under the rock whistled very softly.
"I hear ye, sir," said the short fellow, speaking in Gaelic but never raising his head; "and who might ye be there, like a fox in his earth?"
"It is Archibald Cameron I want," replied the messenger of Muckle John.
At that the tall, cadaverous man seemed to bestir himself, and began to speak in a low anxious tone to his companion, who cut him short, however, with scant courtesy.
"What is it you want?" he cried, turning his head towards the hill. "I am Archibald Cameron, and now your name, sir, and your business?"
"Will ye come up, Dr. Cameron? You will find me beneath the round rock ten paces from the burn."
"Come," said Cameron to the man with him; "there's maybe news of the Prince."
"No news," sighed the other, "is better than bad news."
Then taking to the hill-side they reached the hidden place and crept within.
It was a hole of about six feet by eight and three feet high, and with the sickly smell of a fox's lair.
"A couthy bit corner," said Cameron to his companion, dropping into broad Scots. "What wad we do, Broughton, had we no siclike places as this?" Saying which he yawned and eyed the other mischievously. "Man," he said, with twinkling eyes, "ye'd mak' a bonny scarecrow."
"Oh, have done!" broke out Murray of Broughton (for he it was) in a shrill, peevish voice. "What good can such filthy nooks and crannies avail us? I am like to die," he wailed on, and started coughing, with his hands clutching his sides. Already the Prince's secretary, broken in health, haunted by the constant fear that the Chevalier whom he loved sincerely was taken, oppressed also by his own danger, was coming nearer day by day to his disgrace, driven onward by the weakness of body and mind which may make of any man a coward in the face of death.
His face was drawn with sickness and anxiety. In his pale haunted eyes there flickered a sleepless dread. Murray had all the loyalty, but none of the reckless temerity of the true adventurer.
Meanwhile Cameron had taken tobacco from his pocket.
"A pipe," he said, "I must have, though all the Elector's red-coats were to sit around this spot and sniff the dear smell into their red faces."
Then blowing a cloud of smoke which sent poor Murray into a fit of coughing, he turned abruptly upon the messenger of Muckle John, saying in Gaelic:
"Do you understand Scots? For our friend here, whose name you are probably well acquainted with, has no Gaelic, poor creature!"
The man nodded.
"What is your name?" asked Cameron.
"My name is Donald Grant, and I am from Glenmoriston," said the other.
"A Grant," sniffed Cameron; "well, well, we canna all be Camerons."
He drew up his legs and sat with his elbows on his knees.
"What is your news?" he asked. "Is it of the Prince?"
"Partly—and partly not."
"That's a braw answer," snapped Cameron. "It's unco like maybe, and maybe no. Ye're muckle confidential, you Grants."
"I have a letter," said he, "from one well known to ye—Rob Fraser."
"Rob Fraser! I ken nane o' that name. Oh, bide a wee! Ye mean a laddie?"
Grant nodded.
"That same," he replied.
Cameron drew in a cloud of tobacco and sent it floating in rings above his head.
"Yon's a bonny one," he murmured, and then, cocking an eye upon the other. "Where's the letter?"
Grant drew it carefully from his stocking.
Cameron read:
"This to tell you that the treasure is discovered, and that unless it be put in a safe place all will be lost. The bearer of this letter can be trusted. Come to me at a place that this man will show you, for the Prince is with me, and is in need of you and some gold. ROB FRASER."
"Humph!" grunted Cameron. Then he took to reading it again, weighing every word. Once he stared for a very long time at the messenger, but the followers of Muckle John were chosen carefully. The expression of Grant's bearded face displayed no emotion whatever.
Presently, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he pursed his lips, and handing the letter to Murray, frowned and pulled at one ear, humming and keeping time with his foot—the very picture of a man wanting to go all ways at one and the same time.
"It looks genuine enough," he said grudgingly in Murray's ear, "but I've no knowledge of the laddie's writing."
"Who is Rob Fraser?" asked Murray with shut eyes.
"I had near forgot myself; but he was useful that night on the shore of Arkaig. Maybe ye tak' my meaning?" Saying which he winked and looked meaningly at the other.
"Then what does he ken of where the stuff lies?" whispered Murray.
"About as much as the trout in the burn, which maybe is none so little after all." And again he winked and laughed.
"Will ye go, Archie?"
"I canna just say. It looks uncommon like a trap, and yet..." He broke off suddenly and addressed the man Grant.
"What is this boy like?" he asked sharply.
"He is short and open-faced, and is dressed in the Fraser tartan. He is dark and speaks good Gaelic."
"That's Rob sure enough. Where has he been since he left Lochaber?"
"He was captured and laid in Fort Augustus, but he has escaped and is now Glenmoriston way."
"Glenmoriston is a far cry," said Cameron. "Did he send no word beside this?"
"He said, 'There's a muirfowl snared,' though I did not take his meaning."
"He said that?" said Cameron in a sharp voice. Then turning to Murray he grasped his arm. "Ye hear that?" he cried. "It's Rob right enough, and the Prince with him." He snatched up the letter again. "Gold," he repeated, and back came the frown. "No," he said under his breath, "I'll take no gold. I seem to scent treachery in the word gold. What need has the Prince with such? It's something mair substantial he'll require. Murray," he broke off, "how much have ye upon you?"
"A hundred louis d'or—nae mair," said he. "But tak' it, Archie—only leave me ten for my ain needs."
The coins again changed hands and Cameron again addressed Grant.
"What other news do ye bring?" he asked.
"There is word," Grant replied, "that the soldiers are moving south."
He took to rummaging again in his shirt and drew out a piece of tartan—a tangled, stained fragment about the size of a man's hand.
"One who shall be nameless," said he, "has ordered me to give this to Murray of Broughton, begging him to put it into Lovat's own hands."
"It is a warning," gasped Cameron, "he says they are moving south."
Murray showed no relish for the business.
"I have no wish to speak with Lovat," he replied, "I am the last man from whom he would take such a message."
"Tuts, Broughton," said Cameron impatiently, "at a time like this private misunderstandings are out of the question—ye may save him from the scaffold."
"I would," retorted Murray sourly, "I could bring him to it. But give me the rubbish, I'll see he receives it, though it's poor thanks I'll get."
"You misjudge him, man—he's dour but he's old. This man here has brought it from the Prince belike, who else?" he swung round on the messenger of Muckle John, "you are a Jacobite I take it?" he asked.
The man shook his head.
"I am a Jacobite where my ain race are concerned," he replied, at which Cameron regarded him gravely, and seemed somewhat suspicious and uncertain what to make of him.
Then turning to Murray he drew him outside the place, and they lay about a dozen paces distant amongst the heather.
"Ye ken what this means, Murray?" he said. "There's some one must warn Lovat. It's the Prince has sent word—leastways, ye can tell Lovat so, it will hearten the old man. Should he be taken the Highlands will lose heart. Get him carried by night Badenoch way. Could he win to Cluny's cage he would be as snug as a rat in a hole—and no sic a bad simile, eh?"
"I'll go," said Murray, staring with tired eyes across the glen.
"I'm no taken with this fellow here," went on Cameron, looking over his shoulder, "and yet what more can I want? He carries the daft words I gave to Rob just to impress him, and send him like a hare out of Arkaig—he warns us for Lovat. Oh, John, what can ye mak' o' it?"
For a long time the other continued to stare into empty space. Then turning his head slowly he let his tragic eyes rest on Cameron.
"I know he is no true man," he said, sombrely, "but how I know I cannot tell you. And yet he is no Government man—that I am sure. So I give it up!" His tone dropped into silence, and sighing heavily he drew in his breath to cough.
"Then I will go," said Cameron abruptly. "Good-bye, John; keep watch for a French ship and send word when it shall come."
So shaking hands they parted without another word, never to meet again.
The sun was up and the glen lay clear and lifeless when Cameron and Grant began their weary journey northwards. The last they saw of Murray was his stooping form crawling over the brow of the hill opposite, leaning heavily upon his stick, like a wounded crow limping with broken wings.
After the futile scheme for the continuation of the war—which as all the world knows resulted in only a few hundred men (no Frasers) assembling—all further resistance was at an end, and Lord Lovat, who throughout had no intention of giving any personal demonstration of disloyalty, returned to his island in Loch Morar.
On a spring day late in May when the countryside was bright with the promise of flowers and the birds sang upon every tree, Murray of Broughton visited him, and inside the hut where he lay waiting for news of a French ship, handed him the fateful scrap of tartan—the second warning of Muckle John.
Lovat was lying upon the floor with his back against that same strong box that Rob had carried from Gortuleg House, unshaven and dishevelled with privation and distress, and none too glad to see his visitor.
At the four sides of the island a Fraser was on guard watching the shore—a dozen more sat around the hut, while on the surrounding hills about Morar there were others spying the glens below, intent on the chance approach of the soldiers.
Lovat, who flattered himself he could guess any man's errand, greeted Murray distantly and waved him to a stool. He took a pinch of snuff himself, but seemed in no mind to show a like hospitality to his guest.
"I thought you were in France by now," he said at last. "It were best for us all if you could steer clear of the Government."
"I do not take your lordship's meaning," answered Murray flushing. "I, at any rate, have had no dealings with the Government."
"But that same Government would like fine to have some dealings with you, my man, and supposing they had, supposing they had..."
He looked at him keenly, then laid one finger against another in a manner very typical.
"It was a wicked business," he said, "and had I not moments of dotage I would never have even seemed to have sympathized with it, Murray. But what could an old man do? I had no power—no influence—I was deserted by the Lord-President, a man I trusted like a brother. It was a cruel attack on the crown, Murray, and well ye ken it. What men can do to rectify the wrong we should do, even if it goes against the grain."
Murray listened at first without much comprehension, then with a quickening suspicion of treachery in the air. He realized that Lovat was ready as ever to turn his coat.
"No, no," he cried, "I am not here for that."
Lovat, who had never imagined he was there for any other purpose, regarded him with his customary contempt.
"Then you are a greater fool," he rasped, "than even I took ye for. What have you to gain by your silence? This is the last rising for the Stuarts. There will be nothing now but the English and the English tongue. It makes me sick to see a man crying out against what must be."
Murray shook his head and rose to his feet.
"I have come," he said simply, "at some inconvenience to myself, to do you a service. Here is a token that I doubt not ye ken well and so I wish you good-bye," and handing Lovat the piece of tartan he prepared to leave. But with a strange hoarse cry the old man struggled to his feet. He was beside himself with rage.
Murray, too amazed to move, hesitated in the doorway, and catching up a stick Lovat struck him down before he could raise an arm to defend himself, or avert the blows. Indeed, he lay as though stunned with horror or too broken in body to protect himself.
There was a noise of footsteps outside and a dozen men prevented the Fraser from injuring him further, and after a while he rose and leaving the hut reached his boat. His face was white as death, but in his eyes, hollow with fever and privation, there gleamed like a secret fire such a mad hate and anger that the boatman pulling him out upon the silent loch watched him narrowly until they reached the shore. For a minute or two he did not move, but still crouched with his eyes upon the way they had come, then groping with his hands until he reached the beach, paid them without question, and saying no word passed up the shore and out of their sight—a man long since broken in health for the cause and full of bitterness of heart, but now fired with an undying personal hatred.
"Muckle John," said Rob, as the cart came to a standstill, and his companion had kept a tight mouth for a full half-hour after his last curt words, "Muckle John, why did you rescue me?"
"Why indeed?" he replied dourly enough.
Acting on a sudden impulse Rob leapt over the side of the cart upon the bank of grass beside it, and began to walk in the direction they had come.
"Where are you going?" cried Muckle John, startled for once.
Rob paused and spoke over his shoulder.
"I'm not the one to take favours from you nor any one," he said. "I know fine why you wanted to keep me safe; and now that you've lost the thing you sought I'm no more to you than a peewit's egg." With that he set off again towards Fort Augustus.
"Stop, Rob!" shouted Muckle John. "What's taken ye?" and flinging his legs over the side of the cart, he began to run in pursuit.
"Rob!" he cried again, and came up with him.
"Well?"
"What has come over ye?" he asked.
"Would ye hang yersel' just to spite me? What's done is done, Rob; and I'm no perhaps the saint ye took me for. But save ye I will, and that's the naked truth."
"Let me pass!" cried Rob, and took a step to the right of him.
"Very good," he replied grimly, "but come ye will," and catching him into his huge arms, he flung him suddenly upon the ground and bound his wrists. Struggle as Rob would it availed him less than nothing, and so at last, with hands tied together and a dirk-point in his ribs, he must needs march in the direction Muckle John wished.
For a full hour they trudged on thus, leaving the cart to care for itself.
Then at last he spoke.
"Stop!" he said, holding out his wrists. "I have had enough of this."
"Brawly spoken!" said Muckle John, and he cut the thongs.
"Where," asked Rob, "are you taking me, for I have important business in the south?"
"What might that be?"
"It is the warning of Lord Lovat."
"It is done already; I have sent a man two days since."
"Am I, then, your prisoner?"
His captor broke into a laugh.
"Just a visitor, Rob," he replied, "and nothing more."
In this manner they travelled northwards, passing through wild, desolate glens and black ravines, scaling rugged hills, seeing few upon the road, and more in the heather. Several times in the night they saw the camp-fires of the English, but Muckle John seemed as familiar with the country even in black darkness. During the day they lay close hid in some cranny of the rocks, or skulked upon the crest of a hill, watching the surrounding district for sight of moving troops.
It was nearing nightfall two days after Rob's escape from Fort Augustus when they entered a small, precipitous glen, shut in by lowering, ragged crags, while through its tortuous course a burn was drumming in a melancholy undertone. No drearier spot had ever met Rob's eye. Deserted even by the eagles, it might have been a habitation of the dead.
Now at the side of the burn a shattered pine tree was standing against the evening sky, and as such gruesome thoughts passed through Rob's mind he raised his eyes, and a cry came and died unuttered on his lips. For on a solitary branch about the height of a tall man from the heather, a human head was stuck with the hair still fluttering in the breeze; while underneath dangled the faded uniform of an English soldier.
"Look!" cried Rob.
But Muckle John only nodded absently.
"They're as common as berries hereabouts," he replied.
"Hereabouts?" repeated Rob. "Then whose land is this?"
For answer Muckle John sprang upon a rock and with his hands hollowed about his mouth, sent a clear, penetrating call. From up the hillside a reply came swift as an echo.
"Some call it," he said, "the country of Muckle John."
Before Rob could reply several Highlanders came running down the hill-side, and greeted his companion with every sign of respect and pleasure, all of which he took very naturally.
Then passing onward they came to a narrow defile with a man on guard at the entrance, and continuing their way, reached the opening to a cave.
In the sheltered ground which lay before the cave three men were engaged around a fire, and the smell of cooking drifted in a cloud about their stooping forms.
"Rob," said Muckle John, making way for him to pass, "will you step inside, for if I am not mistaken there is one who will be pleased to see ye."
Without a word, but anxious to know to whom Muckle John could refer, Rob entered the cave. For a moment the darkness of the place made him think he was alone. Then of a sudden he made out the form of a man lying upon the floor; and with a quick fear he knelt down and recognized Archibald Cameron, bound hand and foot.
It took Rob but a couple of slashes with his skian dhu and Cameron was free of his bonds.
Sitting up he groaned and surveyed Rob with a whimsical smile.
"This is a queer manner of hospitality," said he. "If ye had mentioned the name o' the gentleman you were serving I would have taken the hint kindly."
"I serving?" broke in Rob, "I do not understand."
Cameron shrugged his shoulders cynically.
"Maybe ye do not remember the letter," he said very politely, "maybe ye are not Rob Fraser?"
"Dr. Cameron," replied Rob, "this is no time for quarrelling. I know of no letter, and I am a prisoner like yourself. We are both in the hands of Muckle John."
"Muckle John! So that's how the wind blows, eh? Oh, I begin to see. Poor Rob, you're aye the scapegoat. Muckle John, indeed!"
"You know of him?"
Cameron snorted.
"Wha does not?" said he, "there's few between here and Rome has not heard tell of Muckle John."
"Then is he Hanoverian?"
"He's mair like a kite that hovers above the squabbles of other folk."
"Then what does he want with us?"
"Money."
"It's little of that I have."
"You, Rob? Oh no!" And he smiled in a way as though the idea tickled him.
Very greatly puzzled, Rob fell back on silence, and presently Muckle John himself entered the place.
He was in Highland dress and made a great appearance of surprise at seeing Cameron, which ill accorded with the reception that unfortunate gentleman gave him. Then turning, he clapped Rob upon the shoulder and bade them both be seated.
"It's poor hospitality," said he in Gaelic; "but these are sad times, Dr. Cameron. Old campaigners like us know there's thin rations when one takes to the heather."
"Come, sir," replied Cameron, still standing and replying in Scots, "what is it you want? I ken ye fine, and well ye know it. It is not for the pleasure of my company that your cutthroats brought me here. But I warn you there will be a reckoning for this. There will be a bonny ending for you, sir, when it is known in Lochaber."
"Lochaber," sneered Muckle John. "While there is a guineapiece buried in Lochaber neither you nor the Prince himself would raise a Cameron to his side."
"Braw words for a nameless man," cried Cameron bitterly, but very red about the neck. "Hark, Rob, for maybe ye will never hear the like again."
"I am no nameless man!" roared Muckle John; "and well ye know it."
Cameron smiled quietly to himself.
"Then the greater the smirch on your clan—though I'm no just remembering the tartan," he said.
At that Muckle John, flinging back his stool, leaped to his feet, and called out a name which no man Lochaber way can hear in silence.
For an instant, indeed, Cameron seemed on the point of springing upon him; then restraining himself with an effort, he spoke in a very polite tone:
"You will perceive," said he, "I have no sword."
But now that the thing was said Muckle John appeared greatly put about and anxious to smooth it over. He shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with the brooch upon his plaid.
"Tuts, Dr. Cameron!" he said. "I spoke over warmly."
But Cameron only frowned and shook his head.
"I have no sword," he said again.
There was no mistaking his meaning. With a shrug Muckle John turned and left the cave.
"Do not fight him, doctor," broke in Rob. "It is sheer madness. Oh, how could ye fall into such a trap? It is to kill you he led you on."
"Rob," replied Cameron, "you are too young to understand the ways of a Highland gentleman."
"But surely you are more service to the Prince..."
"Whisht, boy! Dinna haver. Ye heard what word he used. A man's name means mair than a whole clan of Princes."
After that there was nothing more to be said.
The doorway darkened again and Muckle John entered with two claymores and targes.
"It is lighter outside, Dr. Cameron," he said, as though they were about to discuss a friendly bout together.
"As you will," replied Cameron with equanimity, and bowed to him to take the lead. But Muckle John bowed still lower, and with his head cocked very high Cameron passed through.
A level place of about ten feet square lay before the cave, and clustered on a ledge above sprawled and sat some dozen ragged Highlanders, who evinced no sort of interest whatever in the impending encounter.
Cameron swung his blade once or twice and tested the steel upon the ground. The targe he threw aside. Then taking off their coats they rolled up their sleeves, and saluted each other. Seeing that the thing was past mending, Rob took his seat very sadly upon a mound and wondered how it would all end. The grey, desolate sky, the silence of utter solitude, the cluster of dirty, unmoved Highlanders, and above and upon them all the smirr of thin hill rain, made his heart sink like lead.
And in the weary greyness of it all, two men about to fight to the death over a hasty word. It was a situation typically Highland.
Cameron, as sturdy a figure as one could wish to see, was standing on guard right foot foremost, his left arm behind his back.