Muckle John was facing him, his long hair loose about his neck, his vast forearms bared, perfectly motionless, a figure of colossal strength.
Suddenly there was a faint scuffle and footsteps in the entrance way.
"Dr. Cameron—Dr. Cameron!" said a low voice, with the round softness of a foreign accent.
They all looked towards the narrow passage which led from the valley below, and Rob sprang to his feet at the sight. For standing there, dressed in faded, tattered clothes, thin and harassed, but with a smile upon his lips, was Prince Charlie.
He was very different to the gallant figure of Inverness and Edinburgh days. Weeks of wandering in the wildest Highland country had brought out his finest, most admirable qualities. Hardship, that strange test of man, had made him far dearer and more romantic than he had ever been before. There was no jealousy of Irish favourites now—no dread of English influence when St. James's should be reached—all that was gone never to return. There was instead a Prince in a tattered kilt, and a dirty shirt, bare-footed and with a gun in his hand, a pistol and dirk by his side—a man just like themselves and thrown by the harshness of destiny upon their loyalty and succour.
Here was a Prince indeed, one who could march and shoot and have a merry word at the end of the day. Had they known what was in him a year before, who can say but the Highlands would have risen to a man.
To Rob he was wonderful, just because he was human and in distress. Even to Muckle John, strange medley of contradictions as he was, there was present in the harassed figure in the opening to the cave an emotional appeal like the lilt of an old song. Some day he knew he would compose a melody for his beloved chanter. The very notion of it brought a lump to his throat.
Meanwhile the Prince had looked them all over with his keen frank eyes.
"Gentlemen," he said in an utterly exhausted voice, "I crave your pardon for interrupting your sport; but I am, as you see, a fugitive and hard pressed. It is good to come upon you, Dr. Cameron, so unexpectedly, for I have sore need of your guidance at this time."
Then, turning to Muckle John, he looked him up and down.
"I seem to remember your face, sir," he said. "If this is your country, may I claim the rights of Highland hospitality?"
"Your Highness..." broke out Cameron. But he shook his head at him.
"No Prince to-day," he said, "but only a hunted man, with more thought for his next meal than the Crown of England itself."
With a start Muckle John came forward and knelt at his feet.
"Your Highness," said he, "I hold this country by right of my claymore, and the guns of these men of mine; what my name is, is neither here nor there, and what my manner of life is ye can maybe guess, and why these two gentlemen are here ye will learn from their ain lips. But it will never be said I took advantage of any man's distress, least of all the sad plight of your Royal Highness."
Cameron, who had been fidgeting during these remarks, broke in hurriedly with a very red face.
"I cannot imagine to what you refer, sir," he said, eyeing Muckle John. "No one has anything to learn from Rob and me regarding one who is as true to the Prince as you, sir."
"Sir," returned Muckle John bowing to him gravely, "you will not find me forgetful of such words."
Before any one could say further the Prince interrupted them, and thanked Muckle John in a broken voice. Then, taking Cameron aside, he asked him how soon they could win their way to Badenoch, where he was to meet Cluny Macpherson, and to hear news of the French ships.
Cameron was about to reply, when a shout from somewhere down the glen made them both halt and look towards the watchful figure of Muckle John.
Something seemed to have turned his body to stone. Rob, who was nearest to him, stepped quickly to the spy-hole commanding the valley, and stared down the rocky slope.
For a moment he detected nothing; then, with a gasp of horror, he observed tiny blots of red running like ants among the rocks, coming ever nearer—red-coats following upon the trail.
A hand touched him upon the shoulder.
"Not a word of this to the Prince," whispered Muckle John, "but do as I bid." And he led him a little away.
"Now, Rob," he said, "let what happened in the past have the go-by, and dinna think ower hardly of Muckle John. I liked ye fine, Rob, and when you wrote that letter from the fort I could have cried at the daft spirit of it. Well, Rob, there's the English, and here are we; and some one must hold this pass if the Prince is to win through."
"But cannot we run for it?"
"He is too tired for that, Rob, and in the open country we should be shot down like hares. Now, away with ye all, and take Grant here to guide you. Make for the south, and dinna stop putting leg to earth for an hour. After that I can promise no more." Turning aside he beckoned to his men, and placed them in position along the side of the slope.
Rob rejoined the Prince and Dr. Cameron, and described the situation. For long Charles was set upon aiding in the defence; but the knowledge that such a course would probably seal the fate of his friends, persuaded him on flight. There was not a moment to spare.
THE HOLDING OF THE PASS.THE HOLDING OF THE PASS.
Accompanied by the man Grant, and bidding a hasty and melancholy farewell to Muckle John, they hurried down the hill-side and disappeared.
Rob let them go in silence. The Prince was safe for the present, and with him Cameron and the keys to the treasure. For him, as for Muckle John, there was nothing but danger, even if they won through in the defence of the pass.
Presently the first shot rang re-echoing down the desolate glen, and he crept forward to where Muckle John sat with a musket across his knees.
"Rob!" he cried, in a voice half anger, half surprise.
"I could not go," he said simply.
For a moment Muckle John looked at him queerly.
"Man, Rob," he said at last, "you're a rare one. But what of Mistress Macpherson? Promise me that you will take to your heels when I tell ye, and go straight for Inverness. She will shield you till better times. Promise, Rob."
"I promise," replied he.
Next moment the firing started in earnest.
Rob took in the situation at a glance. It was very improbable that the soldiers had come upon them by accident. They most certainly knew that the Prince was in hiding in the cleft of the hill. To surround the place was impossible. The only way was to rush the defence, and carry the pass by storm. The reckless manner in which they exposed themselves pointed to the prize they had in view.
As he looked down the glen, lying full length upon a smooth-faced boulder, something in the appearance of a soldier standing a little apart made him call to Muckle John and point him out.
At that very moment, however, the man took off his hat to wipe his brow, and they recognized the cunning features of Captain Strange.
"The crows are gathering," said Muckle John in his sombre voice, and taking careful aim he fired at him, and sent his hat flying from his hand.
"A miss!" he cried, bitterly; and, as though the report of his gun were the signal for the advance, the soldiers began to move rapidly towards them.
What Strange was shouting to them Rob could not hear; but probably, elated at the chance of capturing the Prince, and vying with one another in scrambling up the precipitous place, they were surprised to see a dozen of their number riddled with bullets before they had come to within a hundred yards of the pass.
Then, taking cover, they began to move their way upwards, firing as they came. It was a case of a hundred against a dozen; but after an hour the rocks were dotted with silent red-coats, and still the little garrison held out. Two Highlanders were killed and one wounded.
The Prince had had his chance. Unless some unforeseen misfortune had overtaken him he was safe by now.
Calling his men softly, Muckle John dispatched two with the one who was wounded, thus reducing his forces to seven, and, lighting a pipe, he calmly awaited the next attack.
It came with a wild rush, and a shattering fire some ten minutes later. The English had planted a dozen marksmen up the hill sides to command the pass, and under the protection of their fire the remainder began to run towards the narrow defile.
Half a dozen dropped and still they came on, and three more of the little band of defenders fell under the storm of bullets.
"Claymores!" cried Muckle John suddenly, and unsheathing his great blade, he flung down his musket and charged upon the foremost of the advancing soldiers.
Rushing fresh and swiftly, with the slope to aid them, they drove the enemy back in confusion, hewing them down like corn under the scythe. But two more men were lost and the holding of the pass was nearing its end.
Last of all to retrace his footsteps into the narrow pathway was Muckle John, and even as Rob turned to speak to him a shot rang out and a bullet lodged in his ankle-bone.
"It's all over now, Rob," he said, looking at the wound. "I couldn't cover a hundred yards like this. Go, laddie, and you, Grant, and you, Macpherson—away with you. I can hold the place for a time." With the help of the man Macpherson he bound a piece of his shirt tightly about his ankle, and rested upon his other leg.
All was very quiet outside. Evidently the enemy were gaining breath for the next and final assault.
"Away with you," said Muckle John.
But the two men would not leave him. They stood with Rob, awaiting his fury—and they had not to wait long.
"Grant," he screamed, "what is this? Are you not sworn to obey me? And you, Macpherson? Oh, that I should be flouted to my very face! Begone, or I will kill you with my own sword!"
They were now in full view of the soldiers, but no shot fell. Possibly the sight of a wrangle at such a time was too amazing to be missed.
Avoiding his eyes the two Highlanders drew apart from their infuriated leader, and spoke together in Gaelic.
"Are you going?" roared Muckle John.
They nodded, and passing him, strode down the pass towards the soldiery.
Even Muckle John was taken by surprise. With a sharp cry he attempted to stop them, but it was too late. They were twenty yards away before he had scrambled along the track.
Then leaning heavily upon the smooth face of the rock, he watched them with wistful eyes, saying no more.
"Farewell!" he cried at last; and fetching out his chanter he began to play the "Battle of the Clans," at which they turned and saluted him, and then, swinging their claymores, rushed upon the soldiers, and slashing right and left, fell amongst a heap of slain.
In the pause that followed Muckle John changed the tune to the "Lament for the Children," which is like a moonlit sea for sadness. All the glen lay silent for a space at his playing; In a kind of superstitious fear the red-coats waited, dreading the black hills and menacing landscape, but dreading most of all the stricken player up above. It was Captain Strange who shook them from their panic.
Very cautiously they began to creep upwards, and at that, Muckle John put away his whistle, and turning for his sword, saw Rob standing beside him, a bare claymore in his hand.
"You here!" he cried. "I thought you had gone. It was dreaming I was, Rob. Run, boy, for the night is close upon us. Ye won't? Well, well—it's a rare spirit ye have, Rob, but it's like to trip you up this night," and he swept the passage with his sword.
"Guard you my legs, Rob, and when I'm tired of standing on one foot, I'll lean against the wall." So in the deepening gloom, without further word they awaited the attack.
It came very suddenly. Two soldiers rushed with a wild shout down the echoing passageway. One was pierced on the instant by the point of Muckle John's sword; the other swung about, and was caught on the turn by a lunge from Rob.
"Two," said Muckle John softly, and eased his dirk for the short upward stab. A moment's pause, and four men came at a cautious pace towards them. Muskets they carried, but they did not level them for fear of hitting the Prince, for so they took the indistinct figure of Rob to be. Instead, they clubbed them, and prepared to smash down the defence of their sword-play. At that, however, Muckle John slipped a pistol out of his belt, and discharged it in their faces, to their utmost confusion. One man screamed, and, holding his hands to his eyes, dashed headlong down the slope. His cries sent a chill to Rob's very heart.
Then suddenly they charged the place, driving the foremost men onward from the rear, and even the quick thrust and stab of Muckle John could not resist that reckless onslaught. Within a few minutes the heap of the dead and fallen men was up to their elbows in that narrow place.
The voice of Strange urging on the fragments of his force now reached them. But only muttering curses and sullen voices followed, and with a laugh, Muckle John whistled a Highland rant—a mischievous, derisive tune, with a world of insolence in it.
It brought its reply, for even as he whistled, a single man came down the black passage-way, staying his pace only when he stood within sword-thrust.
"Muckle John," he said quietly.
The other ceased his whistling.
"At your service, Captain Strange," he replied, with a faint note of amusement in his voice.
"Will you have it out with me, Muckle John?" went on Strange. "Let it be to the death, for they will never forgive me this night's work."
"Oho!" cried Muckle John. "Here's a ploy! Did they think that such as you could take me?"
"Not you; but one whom you have sheltered, Heaven alone knows why. Is he still here?"
"He left two hours ago and more. You must search Lochaber, Captain Strange. I doubt you've made a sair muddle of this."
The moon was topping the hills, and a soft grey light stole suddenly down the crags, and fell upon the face of Strange.
"What of your men?" asked Muckle John at last.
Strange gave a bitter laugh.
"They will not stir," he said, "and if they do, Rob here can hold the pass."
"I am not an executioner," said Muckle John, "and I have only one leg."
"Then I must say that Muckle John was mair glib with his tongue than his sword. But I will not say Muckle John—I will say..."
"Enough! Let that name bide its time."
For a minute Muckle John remained silent, then limping towards the flat place before the cave-mouth, he took a long draught of water.
"Come on, sir," he cried, "and you, Rob, guard the pass."
He saluted Strange, who had flung off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, but suddenly he lowered his sword.
"Should I fall," he said, "what of Rob here?"
"He shall go free."
With that they fell to, and the rasping of steel upon steel was the only sound in the grim silence.
Muckle John, supporting his weight upon one leg, foiled the vicious thrusts of his opponent with steady endurance. That Strange was a skilled fencer of the rapier school he realized at once. That he was also cunning and agile he took for granted.
Had he been able to act on the offensive, and bring his vast strength to the attack, no rapier play could have warded off his great blade and iron arm, and yet the growing strain upon his sound ankle was already telling. He was like a man fighting against time.
With a feint Strange lunged for his neck—only a flicker of cold steel, but Muckle John was a fraction of a second quicker, and his opponent, recovering, crouched in the moonlight like a panther foiled in its spring.
Rob, in the meantime, had striven to watch the passage; but no sign of an attack came to set him on his guard, and few could have turned their backs upon that fierce contest amongst the grey, watching crags.
For now Strange had changed his tactics, and strove to lure on Muckle John and catch him off his balance; but there was more in it than that, for nearing the moon sailed a belt of black cloud, and much can be done by one active as a cat in the darkness. But Muckle John was also aware of the cloud and when it drifted over the moon, and they were plunged in darkness, he turned silently to his right, and, kneeling upon one knee, pointed his sword upwards, leaning meanwhile upon his naked dirk.
That Strange would attack on his wounded side so as to ensure a speedy dispatch, was more than probable. It was not the first time that Muckle John had fought in the black darkness. A moment, and a whistle of steel passed close to his ear, and lunging upwards with a twist of the wrist, he felt the blade win home, and a dreadful cry broke the stillness.
Slowly the moon passed out of the clouds, and streamed its feeble light upon the open space between the rocks.
On the smooth surface Strange lay with one arm outstretched and the other clutching his breast.
"He fought hard," said Muckle John, staggering to his feet. "I doubt I've killed him."
The wounded man began to cough, and then, without a spoken word, turned a little away from them, and with a shudder lay utterly still.
For a moment they stood above him, then Muckle John turned to Rob.
"Come," said he, "for we must be far from here before the dawn."
And so they passed out of that terrible place, with all its silent forms on the hill-side and that one lonely figure huddled in the moonlight, Muckle John leaning upon Rob's shoulder, limping towards the west.
In the greyness of the dawn Muckle John called a halt.
"Rob," he said, "here is the day and only a mile covered since last night. Ye ken what that means? Within a few hours reinforcements will arrive from Fort Augustus, they will find the body of Strange—what must follow then?"
Rob shook his head. Escape seemed impossible.
"And yet," said Muckle John, "there must be a way—there's always a way, Rob, if you give your mind to it. There is no prison that cannot be broken, no wall that cannot be scaled—with luck and a cool head. I know, Rob, for have I not done it time and again? But I've always had a sound pair of legs. Let us look at the situation, Rob. Within an hour or two this country-side will be hotching with red-coats. They think the Prince is hereabouts. Now I cannot cover half a mile in that time, and there is no cover worth thinking about. Nor is the ground marshy or I could lie hid to my nose until it was night. But there is a way, Rob...."
He paused and fingered his ankle very tenderly, muffling a strip of his shirt tightly round it.
"Over the knoll there, Rob, is a ruined castle, little enough of it left now to be sure, but there are four walls, a huddle of stones upon the roof, and a burial-place."
"A burial place?"
"Aye, but there's no harm in that. There was a chief of the Macraes buried there, he was a very queer man it is said, but it's long since I looked at his stone. No one ever goes near it after dark, Rob, and mind ye I'm no just hankering after it mysel'."
"But surely they will search the place?"
"Rob," said Muckle John cannily, "there's searching and searching. There's a deal in hiding where folk do not look for ye."
Again they started laboriously on, Muckle John leaning upon Rob's shoulder and supporting himself with a rough crutch hewn from a tree upon the hill-side. Just over the knoll they saw the grey stones of the old stronghold Muckle John had spoken of, a poor enough refuge to all appearances, and certainly one not likely to be overlooked by the soldiers.
Inside the walls the grass was long and rank and in the midst of the grass stood a slab of granite upon four other slabs, making a square memorial very moss-covered and decayed, marking the burial-place of the Macrae.
Opposite it in the wall was a great open chimney-stack. To this Muckle John limped, and staring upwards beckoned to Rob.
"See here," he said, "there is about three feet up a place in the wall large enough for a small man to lie hid. You cannot see it for a very good reason, but it's a bonny spot to hide. Come, Rob, upon my shoulders—there's not a moment to lose."
"But what of you?" asked Rob.
"Up," said Muckle John, "I see them on the brow of the hill."
"No," said Rob, "I will not go until..."
But he had time for no more for Muckle John had him by the throat and was squeezing the very life out of him.
"Dinna clash words with me—you Fraser loon," he snarled, "up ye go or I'll break your neck."
After that Rob was only too ready to get out of reach of those terrible arms.
In the chimney-stack, just as Muckle John had said, there was a place very cunningly hollowed so as to be invisible from below, where a man looking upward saw only a square patch of sky and the broken masonry that fringed the top.
Crouching doubled up with his head upon his knees, he listened for a word from Muckle John. But none came. All he heard was a curious shuffling and a noise like the shutting of a door.
Suddenly, it seemed about a mile distant, a bugle sounded, and very faintly there drifted to him the echo of a shout.
Through the empty place below he heard the wind crying, and the singing of it in the long grass, but of Muckle John not a word.
Out on the moor he could hear the stream drumming cheerily over the stones. It was a bright spring morning full of the singing of birds, very difficult to associate with sudden death and a quick burying under the heather. Those who had met the English on their jaunts into the hills had small reason to hope for mercy and none for the dignity of a trial. It was better to leave home by the back door and dodge the bullets. In those far-off days an English soldier at fifty yards was comparatively harmless.
Rob craned his ears for any sound of their advance. But there was not the smallest hint of impending danger. For all he knew they might be scouring the country-side Loch Ness way. They might by this time be a couple of miles away. Already he was becoming exceedingly stiff. He struggled with a growing temptation to move one leg just an inch. Very cautiously he did so. He succeeded in making a noise—not a loud noise, indeed, but in that hollow place quite loud enough to make him turn cold with fear. But nothing happened, there was no whisper of spying red-coats creeping stealthily amongst the ruins, listening for all he could tell within three feet of his hiding-place.
Suddenly he heard a rustle in the grass below him, and a creak like the noise of a boot. He was instantly transfixed with terror. It is well enough to meet death in the open, though by no means a pleasant business there, but to sit cooped up in a chimney unable to see what is happening above or below is more than human nerves can tolerate. He had a tantalizing desire to peep over the edge, to catch one heartening glimpse of the green grass below, to assure himself that a red-faced English soldier was not peering up or fixing his bayonet to poke it about inside.
But he knew in his heart that did he look down he would most surely see what he most dreaded, and so he lay still with every bone in his body aching and one leg tingling with numbness as though a score of needles were pricking it from every side.
And still nothing happened, and there was only the crying of wind about the crumbling walls, and the ceaseless drumming of stream water on the moor.
He fell into a kind of doze at last when the blood seemed to stop circulating in his body, and once he knocked his head most painfully against the sharp edges of the crevice, having nodded with fatigue. His eyes would not stay open, and a terrible struggle against sleep began. He had already suffered a rude awakening by the soldiery outside Captain Campbell's tent, and he was not desirous of undergoing another. He began to hear noises that he knew in his heart did not exist, or if they did were caused by the creatures of the wild or birds settling for a moment up above his head. He took to staring at the opposite of the chimney where very dimly he could see the pebbles stuck in the mortaring and the rude chipped stones. These he counted for a time in order to rid his mind of the bayonet. But always he saw its gleaming steel-cold point just before his face. He could see it now. Surely it was a bayonet? Rob shut his eyes very tightly, then opened them again. It was still there. More than that it moved—it scraped against the stone just an inch from his foot. He saw a small piece chipped neatly off. He actually heard it rattle down upon the empty floor below.
With a blinding shock he realized that it was a bayonet—that they were come—that in secrecy and silent as ghosts the place was full of soldiers, had been perhaps for hours. Sleep was instantly banished and fear set him once more alert. His only hope lay in utter silence. Again the bayonet hovered like a snake within a few inches of his knees. He knew the man was staring upwards, vaguely suspicious, despite the apparent smooth emptiness of the chimney. He was not satisfied. The bayonet worked its way round the place again. Another piece chipped off, this time a larger piece. Why, Rob wondered, with the sweat upon his brow, did the man not try the other side? It was just as likely there. Did he really know? Was this a little sport to while away the time? It was almost more than he could bear.
Very carefully the bayonet worked its blind course round again, and this time it carried about an eighth of an inch off his brogue. Next time it would be his bare flesh. Suddenly the bayonet vanished. The man apparently tired of it, or satisfied that there was no hidden place in the chimney, drew his musket down and all was quiet again.
Rob was half-minded to ease his aching limbs when a peculiar sweet smell came drifting past him. There was some one smoking in the place below, and what was more very close to the chimney to send the fragrance up the shaft of it. Rob considered the matter very carefully. It seemed possible that the soldier was alone, and quite unconscious of his presence. A man did not smoke in silence unless he was solitary, and smoking was an idle recreation not associated with premeditated murder. Perhaps the fellow was lost or tired. Perhaps (most comforting thought of all) he would fall asleep. He wondered just how he was sitting, and whether he was leaning against the hearthstone with his eyes half-closed and the top of his head not so far below him.
With the utmost caution Rob leaned forward and peeped over.
It was just as he had pictured it. In the open fire-place a soldier was huddled at his ease, his hat upon the ground, his back against the slab of blackened stone, the pipe stuck at an angle in his mouth and his lank hair dishevelled and on end. He was dozing. Even as Rob watched him the pipe in his mouth slid upon his coat, where it lay on its side with a thin curl of smoke twining from the bowl.
Rob considered the situation. He was convinced that the man was alone, but there was the likelihood that he had been dispatched there to await the search-party. The state of that district was hardly one to encourage solitary English soldiers to sleep at their good pleasure. The ghastly pine-tree within a mile or two of this very spot was a grim enough reminder of that.
Rob was strongly inclined to fall upon him while he slept, and trust to knocking him senseless or dirking him as he struggled in the narrow fire-place. Those were not gentle times. Dirking seemed a very natural action to Rob. He looked on the soldier below him as a sworn foe beyond the claims of pity—an invader and murderer of his people. Under no possible circumstances could Rob have regarded an Englishman with sympathy or admiration since for centuries he had been looked upon as a natural enemy, and now a very bitter one indeed.
But if he failed to kill the man, then the game was up, and even if he did succeed in his design they were not much better off, Muckle John could not reach a place of safety, and another slaughtered Englishman would only point to their near presence in the neighbourhood and redouble the soldiers' previous energies.
And then as though to settle the matter once and for all, a bugle sounded near at hand, the soldier awoke and scrambled to his feet, there was a noise of marching on the moor outside and the splashing of a horse passing through the burn. Rob heard an order given and the grounding of arms. He listened to the roll-call being read and the words of dismissal.
The short afternoon was closing in, and to his horror he realized that they were camping for the night.
Into the open room below he heard several men enter, and their conversation reached him in his hiding-place. There was little comfort in what they said. As far as he could judge the officer in charge was questioning the soldier who had fallen asleep under the chimney.
"Seen no one I suppose?" He spoke with a Highland accent.
"No, sir, and I've searched the place high and low."
"Been up the chimney?"
"Yes, sir."
"Looked under that gravestone there?"
"No, sir, it's not possible to move that."
"Call two of the men, we'll soon see to that."
There was a moment's silence and then a sound of heaving.
"Can't budge it, sir."
"Here let me have a hand."
A sudden fear came to Rob that perhaps Muckle John had taken refuge there—but no, what four men could not move it was unlikely he could lift with his injured ankle.
"Sergeant," said the officer, "march back to the cave where the engagement took place yesterday with twelve men, leave the other four with me, we'll spend the night here."
"Here, sir—with that stone?"
"It takes more than a dead Jacobite to frighten me," replied the officer, and a few minutes later Rob heard the tramp of feet die away again.
It was darkening fast and he wondered what Muckle John was doing and where he was, whether if he was lying hid in the heather he would make a sign, or whether he must spend the whole frightful night cooped up like a fowl in a pen.
He must have dozed a little when a curious noise made him start and listen with strained ears. It was a familiar enough sound—just the sharp crackling of firewood, but there was a horrible significance in it now, for a whiff of smoke curling up into his face set his eyes watering.
They had lit a fire in the hearth below. The thin wisp of smoke grew into a column swirling unsteadily upwards. It became a solid volume choking and hot. With a sob of pain and despair Rob covered his face with his bonnet. For a few minutes that relieved his eyes and nose, but the danger of being suffocated was only subordinate to being roasted alive. It was a great roaring fire they were laying. He heard the loose sticks and dried heather falling in bundles on the blaze.
His ears sang with the suffocation of it, his brain swirled and his breath came in short gasps as a fish gasps upon a bank. And then with a pitiful cry he fell forward, down upon the fire itself and with a swirl of smoke and sparks, into the midst of the soldiers.
The officer thinking that the blackened, tattered figure might be the Prince himself hastened to stamp out the tongues of flame upon his clothes, and dragging him to his feet stared into his face.
"Tuts," he said in a tone of deep disappointment. "It's only a boy."
"It's the lad who escaped," cried a soldier peering at him; "the Duke offers fifty pounds for his arrest."
"What lad?" asked the officer, eyeing Rob with some interest.
"Rob Fraser, he knows...," but the officer broke in, "Never mind what he knows," he said testily, "bind him and set him against the wall."
Long after when Rob was come to himself and his eyes more accustomed to the light from the great fire he watched the officer at his supper. He was a small red-haired man with cold blue eyes and white eyebrows, for all the world like a badger, and with Campbell written all over him. It was an evil day when a Campbell could strut over the country-side at his ease.
Having finished his food and offering none to Rob, who nearly begged him for a mouthful so famished was he, the officer lit his pipe and called in his men, telling them they could sleep along the walls of the place.
Greatly affable through meat and drink he also fell into conversation, and being like most little men very anxious to show what a terrible fellow he was, with the spirit of a giant, he related the tale of the banshee of Loch Fyne, and told it so capably that the soldiers drew a little together and sent the bottle round in some uneasiness.
"It came from a lonely island," he said, "and none saw it pass over the grey face of the loch—but there was a mournful cry that seemed to be far up in the clouds and a cold wind passing like a wraith along the barren shore. Oh it was the rare one the banshee of Loch Fyne, and some said it lived in the lonely island where the dead lay, for it always passed that way, and it never travelled alone."
"I don't like these Highland tales," said one Englishman with a shiver, "least of all hereabouts. There was a ghost I've heard tell in Holmbury Hall..."
"Whisht to your ghosts," broke in a large Lowland Scot, whose eyes were great with the story of the banshee. "Captain here has seen the banshee, have ye no, sir?"
Now the officer had never before claimed that privilege. It is improbable that he had ever been to the shores of Loch Fyne, being a Glen Etive man, and it is also open to question whether the dreaded banshee was not a traveller's tale. However that may be he was not prepared to disappoint his hearers at so propitious a time.
"Once—once," he replied, being a man as truthful as a lie would permit, "only once and that at midnight—a clear moon in the sky and no wind to speak of. I was a youngster at the time, barely twenty, and as reckless as could be. It was always said that the banshee rose from the ancient burial-place at twelve o'clock, and floating across the loch set out on her evil errand. There are those who heard poor Angus Campbell wailing all through a winter's night and his voice up in the clouds, 'Tha e lamhan fuar: Tha e lamhan fuar! It has a cold, cold hand!'"
"My goodness," gasped the Lowlander, dragging himself nearer to the fire.
On every face about the dying blaze superstitious fear was written. Even Rob, weak with want of food and full of misery, heard his teeth chatter at the picture the little man drew—for he was an artist in gruesome effects.
"Over I rowed," he continued, "and the whole clachan watched me go. I rowed out over the silvery loch under a rising moon, and there was no whisper of what was to come, not even the soft music that the banshee..."
"What was that?" gasped one of the soldiers in a trembling voice.
They all turned about and listened.
"I thought I heard a tune far away," he whispered, shaking with fright.
"Tuts," said the officer, but none too happily, "it was nothing. But the tune that the banshee plays is a queer twisted tune, and once ye hear it there's no getting away—what was that? I'll swear I heard something."
This from the little officer himself set all aquiver with agitation. Some one tried to throw some more wood on the fire and found there was none, while the two nearest to the open space in the wall drew so close to their comrades that they were hunched up together like cattle in a drove.
Rob crouched under the shadow of the wall overcome with a kindred fear. Forgotten was Muckle John—forgotten was his impending fate—there only remained the dreaded banshee and the far away haunting echo of a tune, and the strangeness of the place they were in.
"Come, come," said the officer with some attempt at soothing them, "it's queer the way the courage goes in these forlorn places. As I was saying I lay watching the great tombstone that the moonlight rested upon, when I heard a bit ripple of music that fairly made the flesh creep on my bones and my hair stand up quite crisp and prickling. And will ye believe me the stone of the tomb began to rise..."
"Listen!" screamed Rob.
His shrill warning acted on them like an electric shock. They scrambled to their feet in a perfect paroxysm of terror. And then far away like a ghostly measure sounded a lilting, ghastly melody. Ghastly it sounded in that dim place with only the sullen red light upon the broken, haunted walls—ghastly just because it was a trifling mocking catch of tune played in a grim and heartless manner.
But more was to come.
"Let us get out of here," groaned one of the Englishmen in a hoarse voice, but he spoke too late.
For before their starting eyes the top of the massive tomb began to lift—lift—lift, and the tune to grow clearer coming ever nearer like a man marching slowly into their midst.
Then there was such a scene as that lonely moor had never seen before and will never see again. For with one united howl of terror they rushed together for the door. And first of them all was the little officer. Into the silent night they tore, tripping, falling, never daring to look back, but set on reaching Fort Augustus in the swiftest possible manner.
Only once did the little officer pause, having fallen head-first into a bog, and as he scrambled out he heard (or says he heard) the thing at his very heels floating ten feet from the ground and playing as it came.
Rob, unable to fly, was forced to a bravery he did not relish. And so with tightly closed eyes and his head buried under a tuft of grass he prepared for the end. Look at that dreadful sight again he would not. He heard the mad tumult of the flying soldiers—he caught a loud bang like a heavy door clanging to—he listened with trembling limbs to the ghostly melody dying upon the moor.
And then back again he caught the sound of footsteps, and he knew that the banshee was come to eat him at its leisure.
It was groping across the floor towards him. Now it was touching him. Its hands were as cold as the little officer had said.
"Rob!" said Muckle John, shaking him.
He uttered a muffled cry partly because of his mouth being so stuffed with grass, partly through the shock of it all, but mostly because it was all so unexpected.
Muckle John said nothing but cut him free, and taking the strips of rope threw them on the fire.
"Should they ever come back, which will only be by day if at all," he said, "they will know that it ate ye up every scrap. But I'm doubting if they will. Let us make up the fire, Rob, and take our sleep, for there'll be few meddling us awhile."
"But how could you do it, Muckle John?"
He put some sticks upon the embers and began to eat the remnants of the soldiers' supper.
"Did I no say there is always a way, Rob, div ye but find it. There are few places hereabouts that I do not know, Rob, and maybe that's in my favour. But if I was to say that the tombstone is no tombstone at all, and that Macrea is merely a manner of speech, I'll allow I might seem to have deceived ye. But just as the fox, bless him, knows his hiding-place before he sets ahunting, so I, Rob, have made wee preparations long syne. They may come in useful some day, and when I lay hid in that same stone in the year '41 for a private matter, I was glad enough to have taken the precaution."
"What was that for?" asked Rob, his head nodding with sleep.
But Muckle John only handed him a bannock and a cup of water from the burn.
"That would be telling," he said, and wrapping himself up in his plaid he sat blinking at the fire.
During the mending time of Muckle John's ankle they lay hid in the broken castle, and such a tale was told about the banshee that the place was given a wide berth. Each of the four soldiers related the terrible experience to a dozen other soldiers and those added a trifle of their own and handed it on so that within a day the whole of Fort Augustus knew of it, and soon it was spreading to the searching parties amongst the hills and within a week Edinburgh was posting it down to London.
Many, indeed, scoffed at the thing but, as none came to give the banshee a personal test—the desire of Muckle John for absolute quiet was gratified. The castle was treated with profound respect for fully a century afterwards.
It fell to Rob to scour the neighbouring country at night for food, and so a week passed peacefully enough, and one evening with a promise of fine weather and a starlit night they prepared to set out again.
"Let us make for Loch Carron, Rob," said Muckle John, "the country thereabouts is clear of troops and when we hear news of a French ship in the Sound of Sleat we can go south."
"Must we go to France, Muckle John?"
"That or Holland, Rob—but only for a while. This will all blow over, and when you have grown a beard, back you will come and none will know ye."
"But won't you return too?"
"I? That depends, Rob, I doubt but the country will be too quiet for me. The Highlands are no what they were. I mind the day when a gentleman could lift a few head of cattle at his good pleasure. But there'll be little of that soon, Rob, and I was not brought up to trade like a lowland bailie."
Somewhat depressed by such a prospect, Muckle John sighed, and so they set out again and reached Glen Affrick before the dawn. There they lay hid under the shelter of a crag until the evening, when they set out as before and two days later halted on the shores of Loch Carron, having encountered no dangers on the road.
At the head of the lock was a small, mean-looking inn, and outside, sitting on their haunches, half a dozen rough-looking men—swarthy, black-haired fellows in the Mackenzie tartan. They were chattering together like monkeys as Muckle John and Rob approached, but on seeing them they fell silent and stared at them both with hostile, insolent eyes. There was not a man there who did not think of Culloden the moment he saw them—Muckle John with his limp and Rob with hunted Jacobite written all over him. There was little welcome for strangers in those days when a body of red-coats on the smallest pretext might burn an unoffending village to the ground.
But they said nothing, glowering up at them under their shaggy brows.
Muckle John took them in at a glance. He read just what was in their minds, and with a quiet good-day he passed them and entered the inn.
"Rob," he whispered, "not a move till I tell ye."
A haggard old woman was sitting upon a stool before the peats. She raised her eyes and stared at them both for a time without speech—then something in the build of Muckle John set her staring afresh until he bent his head and looked into her lined, yellow face.
"Tha sibh an so," she cried huskily, "you here?"
"Whisht!" said Muckle John, "how is it with you, Sheen?"
She crooned at the name he used.
"It is well," she replied, "but what of you—and what is it I can do?"
"Tell me, Sheen," said he, "what of this place—is it safe?"
She shook her head.
"There is death here," she said, "Neil Mackenzie is back from the wars—he is new come from the pursuit of the Prince—you must fly, and the boy with you. Did they see you outside?"
He nodded, with his eyes on the door.
"We are awaiting news from France," he said, "how can we leave here—they would overtake us."
Over the face of the old woman there crept a look of fear.
"Hark!" she said, "there are footsteps along the road."
They all stood listening intently.
Nearer and nearer came the thud of feet.
"It is himself," she whispered, "Neil Mackenzie new come from Skye."
Muckle John smiled grimly.
"From the frying-pan into the fire, Rob," said he, and sat down beside the fire.
Out upon the roadway they heard muffled voices and once a man's face looked in at the window-hole and disappeared very sharply.
As for Muckle John he appeared greatly interested in the peats upon which he was sitting.
Suddenly there appeared in the doorway a man of about fifty, of middle height, but with the broadest shoulders and chest that Rob had ever seen. He was in full Highland dress, with a claymore at his side, and one hand rested on the hilt of it and the other on his hip. His attitude was cool and insolent. His features were broad and coarse and his smooth, clean-shaven face over fat and pink, but there was no denying the spirit of the man. His eyes were full of it—that, and an ugly malice.
HE WAS IN FULL HIGHLAND DRESS, WITH A CLAYMORE AT HIS SIDE.HE WAS IN FULL HIGHLAND DRESS, WITH A CLAYMORE AT HIS SIDE.
Muckle John glanced at him very casually and fell to examining his finger-nails, while Rob stared at the stranger in open wonder.
Behind the man in the doorway there clustered a half-dozen dirty Mackenzies like cattle beasts nosing at a gate.
Neil Mackenzie, for he it was, set about ordering a drink for himself and then sitting down upon a stool he stared at Muckle John in the same insolent manner, while into the room trooped the men from the roadside, intent on the sport. They had seen Neil at this game before. He was the rare one to lay a stranger by the heels.
"Maybe you've travelled far the day?" he asked in a voice like the bark of a fox.
Muckle John looked him over slowly.
"Maybe," he replied, and warmed his hands at the peats.
Mackenzie stirred upon his stool.
"You are not the only one on the road with a hacked ankle to-day," he said.
"A hacked ankle," retorted Muckle John, "is mair consoling than a hewn head."
So far they had spoken in Scots, but now, as though to let his men hear how the matter went, Mackenzie rose to his feet and swaggering across to Rob gave him a cuff on the head and said:
"Whose young bantam are you, lad, and what kind of tartan is that for the Mackenzie country?"
Now Rob was not the one to take blows from any one, least of all before a crowd of jeering strangers, and had Muckle John not given him a look there is no saying but that he might have acted rashly.
"There are times," answered Muckle John, "when a man is grateful for small mercies."
Instantly Mackenzie grew very red and took to breathing quickly, like all Highlanders in a passion.
"I seem to know your face," said he, "but I do not know the tartan you wear."
"It is a strange people you are," said Muckle John, "who do not know a bard when you see one."
"A bard," echoed Mackenzie, "then sing or play," and he laughed at the rest of them and winked for what was to follow.
"My boy here carries my instrument," he said, and he drew Rob aside under pretence of conferring with him.
"Rob," he whispered, "hark to the tune that runs just so," and he hummed a bar, "maybe it will be called 'Mackenzie's Dance.' When I have played it once do as I tell," and he laid his mouth close to the boy's ear. "Make your way out and take the old woman with ye, for she can give you a hand."
Then, turning on the Mackenzies, he smiled like a man on a pleasant errand, and standing with his back to the fire began to sing, and at the first note a strange hush fell over the Mackenzies, for none had ever listened to singing like that.
The sun had set an hour since and the grey mist of the gloaming was creeping over the loch and along the beach. Far out at sea a boat was heading shorewards. Muckle John saw it through the open window-space. It was a boat swiftly rowed and carrying a flag at the stern. Mackenzie was watching it too—a derisive smile upon his lips. And as Muckle John sang he saw the smile and measured the distance that divided the boat from the land with a swift glance.
"Brawly sung," cried the Mackenzies, laughing in their sleeves at the rude awakening the stranger would have.
Muckle John paused a moment and drew his whistle out of his pocket.
"If you were to give me the space of an elbow," said he, "I would play you a tune."
"Way there," cried Mackenzie, and they fell back, leaving a passage to the door.
At that Muckle John broke into a lament called "The Glen of Tears," and in the wail of it was the sadness of twilight and the story of it was the passing of years. Sorrow—sorrow and the old days that are gone for always—backwards and forwards went Muckle John and tears trickled down the cheeks of the Mackenzies, while Neil, their leader, hung his head and said in his mind, "We will not fall on him yet, but wait awhile until we have heard another tune."
And all the time the boat was nearing the shore.
Without pausing Muckle John swung out a reel, and so brisk was his way with the fingering and so lively the measure that they fell to dancing there and then, turning and hooching, and best of them Neil Mackenzie, a scoundrel if ever there was one.
None noticed how Muckle John had reached the open doorway. It was only the pause that he made (which was pure reckless madness of him) until they found themselves staring at each other shamefacedly and looking at Neil to see what was in his mind. But he only grinned, thinking of the rare joke that was coming and nodded to Muckle John.
"Go on," he shouted.
Muckle John bowed his head. On his lips was a dangerous smile.
"I will play a tune," said he, "called 'The Dance of the Mackenzies'—it came running in my head an hour back."
"It is the quick mind he has," muttered a black Mackenzie to his neighbour.
"I am not liking the look in his eyes," was the reply, "he is no fool that big man."
But Muckle John was already fingering his whistle, and it was certainly a taking tune and yet with something queer about it—something that made them glance at each other under their eyes for dread of they knew not what.
And Neil Mackenzie started from his lethargy too late.
For at the last bar there was the noise of crackling upon the roof—and the thatch was in a blaze.
With a shout he drew his sword and rushed for the door, but the stranger was ready for him and no man in the Highlands single-handed could hold his own for a minute against the long claymore of Muckle John. He stood in the narrow doorway leaning a little forward, and with a dirk in his left hand.
"Dance!" he shouted derisively as the noise of the fired thatch grew to a sullen roar. "Dance, you dogs!" and flicking the claymore from Neil Mackenzie's hand he ran him through the sword arm.
Then they came at him altogether, a bristling, snarling crowd, armed with dirks only and helpless against his long blade. He drove them back with harsh laughter—fought them back into the blinding smoke, and standing in the doorway burst into song again, putting words to the tune he had played. In a stricken silence they listened, while out in the darkness a boat on the loch halted and rested oars watching the red flames curling up into the night.
"Dance—dance on the feet of fire!" sang Muckle John, "Mackenzies tripping it brawly."
Suddenly from the room where the smoke was dense and black a voice called on him to hear them. It was Neil himself.
"What do you want with us?" he cried.
Muckle John stared into the mirk.
"Throw out your arms," said he, "and you, Neil Mackenzie, come out first and stand on one side."
There was an instant clatter of dirks and one broadsword.
"Rob," cried Muckle John, "take this man away there and pistol him if he shows mischief, though I sliced his arm prettily enough."
Then turning back, Muckle John collected the arms together and called on the Mackenzies to come out. This they did readily enough, gasping and coughing in the glare of the fire, and rubbing the smart of it from their aching eyes.
Seeing that they meditated no attack Muckle John threw their dirks into the blazing house, and then marched up to them.
"I am taking your chief," he said, "as a safeguard. If I am followed I will claymore him as surely as my name is Muckle John."
"Muckle John!" they cried aghast.
"I thought he was no ordinary man," said the black Mackenzie to his neighbour.
"Muckle John!" repeated the other, "it is the rare fools we have been, Angus—I think I will be getting home."
"Come," said Muckle John to Neil Mackenzie, and without a word they started.
But of a sudden Muckle John stopped in his tracks.
"Rob," he said, "make due south, keeping the sea-line and halt two miles away on the shore. I have business here," and turning back he disappeared in the darkness.
Near the wrecked cottage he found the old woman weeping silently.
"Sheen, poor woman," he said, "it is not my father's son would ruin you who know my secret."
"You are still nameless?"
"Still nameless, Sheen, until I meet the man who killed my father."
"Who will he be?"
"Who, indeed? But I shall know him. I go abroad again when I can. Some day perhaps I shall come across him. They say he had a horror of the 'The Pedlars' Reel'—it was the tune my father died with in his throat, and it is the tune, Sheen, that I play whenever I meet such a man as he may be."
The old woman touched his arm.
"There is doom coming up the shore," she said, "I can feel it on the wind."
"The boat," said Muckle John, "who was coming so fast in the boat?"
"I do not know, but there is death in the air."
Muckle John caught her arm.
"Here," said he, "take this—it is a trifle but it will buy you another cottage, Sheen. Good-bye—it is long till we shall meet again."
He stepped past her and crept towards the beach. On the shore the boat was beached, and several men were scrambling up the sand. One, a tall thin man with a heavy cloak about him and a stick in his hand, was supported by two sailors.
Muckle John crept closer. Some Mackenzies were running to meet the newcomer full of what had happened.
He listened to the tale they told the tall man, who seemed so faint with illness or the sea that he had to sit down to hear them.
"Who was this man that Mackenzie sent for us to take?" asked one, the captain of a frigate evidently.
"Muckle John!" cried a voice.
At that new life seemed to stream into the crouching, broken figure on the sand.
"Muckle John!" he cried.
It was the voice of Captain Strange!
All that night Muckle John and Rob sped towards the south, and at the dawn they reached the country of the Macraes, where they parted with Mackenzie, and headed for the shores of Loch Hourn.
There on a desolate, rain-lashed moor, with salt upon the wind, and the sea birds crying over their heads, Muckle John called a halt.
It was near the end of May, but a bitter day even for Loch Hourn.
"Where do we go now?" asked Rob, shivering with cold.
"Where indeed, for now we are driven into the English line of march and Knoidart was the last place I hankered after. It is better that we should take different roads, Rob, we've travelled too long together. Make you for the south, Rob, and if all goes well wait news for me outside Leith. There is a gibbet there—shall we say this day month, and if I do not come then just go your ways and never say what took you there. And, Rob, change that kilt and for mercy's sake cover your legs with breeks and decent hose, for the like of you would be recognized from end to end of Scotland. They want you, Rob, never forget that—they want you as a rebel, but that's havers; as a prison breaker, but that's neither here nor there—they want you just because you ken where Lovat lies hid, and what came to the treasure of Arkaig. What did come to that same treasure, Rob? Where was it buried or was it not buried at all?"
"I cannot say," replied Rob, "for I do not know."
Muckle John sighed and then shaking him by the hand addressed the far distance with a pensive and melancholy gaze.
"Whether a man is mair injudicious as a fool or a knave must ever be a matter of argument," he mused aloud, "but I ken fine which I would have ye be, Rob," and shaking his head he began to move away.
Suddenly, however, he paused and coming back more quickly led Rob down to the edge of the loch.
"Tell me," he said, "what is there to prevent me from putting you in there?"
"Nothing," said Rob, "but I do not see what you would gain by that—I tell you I know nothing of the treasure. It was hid while I sat upon the beach."
Muckle John shook his head in the same forlorn fashion.
"I hardly like to leave you, Rob," said he sadly, "there are times when I wonder whether you are to be trusted alone. Many men would say you were daffing, Rob—but there's honesty written all over your face. I once met another just like yersel' so I know. It's a terrible responsibility to be so honest, Rob—it maks other folk uncomfortable. Good-bye to ye, Rob, and here's some siller just in case you are hungry or want a night's lodging. But be careful of the wandering bodies Rannoch way, for they'd cut your throat for a nod and follow you to London for the clink of a bawbee."
"Good-bye," said Rob, "where do you go now, Muckle John?"
"I make for Arisaig," he replied, "I have a debt to pay."
"A debt?"
"Not so surprised, Rob, no man pays his just debts like Muckle John. Dirk for dirk—shot for shot—chase for chase—there is no honester soul than Muckle John."
Rob laughed, though a trifle faint-heartedly, and in that manner they parted, Muckle John passing rapidly southwards while Rob watched him fade into the dreary landscape and become lost in the cold sea mist.
It was at the corner of Church Street on the week following the engagement at Glenmoriston, that Miss Macpherson, busied about a few purchases, stopped very sharply opposite the tavern of Major James Fraser (commonly known as Castleleathers) and peered with signs of agitation at a printed paper hung in the window. A casual onlooker would never have known Miss Macpherson was even faintly moved by what she read, but a close observer would have seen her mouth close tightly, her brows droop over her keen eyes, her hands clutch the parcels in her arms spasmodically. It was enough to startle any woman. Indeed, most people would have lost their heads, and done something foolish.
For the contents of the paper were principally devoted to a personal description of one "Rob Fraser, a rebel at large, dressed in a kilt of the Fraser tartan with a dark coat—sixteen years and over—of strong build and dark-haired, who was in arms against the Government at Culloden and has since broken prison from Fort Augustus, skulked with desperate rebels and recently killed, in company with one called Muckle John, a notorious Jacobite, a number of his Majesty's forces in the country of Glenmoriston. Whoever shall lay the said Rob Fraser by the heels shall receive the sum of fifty pounds," and so on.
There was much more, but Miss Macpherson, sick at heart, walked slowly away. It would not do for her to be seen reading the thing. Her mind was stunned for a moment. She did not notice where she went, or the passers-by. It was only when she knocked against a great man standing at the corner of the street that she started and looked up.
It was Castleleathers.
She knew him slightly as a distant cousin of Rob's father, but would have gone on her way had he not greeted her.
"A fine day, Miss Macpherson," he said loudly, as a couple of soldiers tramped past them along the road, and then in a low tone, "have you news of Rob?"
"No," she replied, "and no news is like to be good news in these times. What set him meddling with such things—the feckless loon?"
He jerked his head towards his house.
"Come away in," he whispered, "we must see what can be done."
Together they entered the place and going upstairs came to an upper room.
He was a very heavy, red-faced, helpless kind of man. His massive incompetence under stress of emergency irritated her to tartness.
"It was here Rob met that soft-spoken gomeril, Muckle John," she snapped.
"Aye, that it was," he replied, nodding moodily.
"And I suspect the man who gave him my address that evening, Major Fraser."
"Dear me, Miss Macpherson, ye say so?"
"That I do, my man, and what's more he's in this very room."
With a pathetic simulation of surprise Castleleathers made as though to look over his shoulder.
"It's yersel'," said Miss Macpherson coldly.
He tried to meet her stony stare, but failed.
"When ye mention it," he began like a man struggling to recall a distant event, "when ye mention it, maybe I did say I was second cousin to Rob who lived with his aunt near by—I'm no denying anything mind ye, I merely say maybe I did in the course of conversation, a pleasantry madam, a bit of gossip..."
"It's like to be a dear bit of gossip for Rob," she retorted, "and that no so far away."
"Tuts! you take too serious a view. It will all blow over—all blow over. There has been trouble before, I mind the '15, it was just the same, and before a few months had passed all the folk were going about their ways just the same and keeping their claymores oiled for the next time. Rob is a lad of spirit, Miss Macpherson, and they will not take him."
But she was not listening to him. She was revolving in the depths of her mind some kind of plan, any sort of crazy plan that would save Rob. The day when he could have surrendered and escaped with a few months' imprisonment was past; he was now a notorious rebel still in arms, and associated with desperate leaders amongst the rebel army. There was no hope of shielding him until better days. It must be escape across the sea—or a pardon. But the idea of a pardon was, of course, absurd.
"What can we do?" she said in a kind of restrained despair.
Castleleathers blinked.
"We?" he repeated vaguely. "I fear that I..."
But she froze him with a single look.
"I am in no mind for argument," she said, "and our business is to get Rob free. I have at the back of my head a plan of a kind, but it will need sleeping on."
"But I cannot risk my neck even to assist you, Miss Macpherson."
"My man," she replied grimly, "you will risk your neck if you don't. Who shielded Muckle John, that desperate rogue, in Inverness under Lord London's verra nose but just yersel'?"
"How did ye know?" he whispered, much taken aback.
"I didna," she replied comfortably, "but I suspected as much."
"He was an old friend."
"That would tickle the ears of the Duke, he has a sair grudge against Muckle John, he told me so himsel'. He said he'd willingly hang any one who gave him shelter."
Castleleathers shrank back.
"He said that did he?" he murmured aghast.
She nodded her head.
"He's no sae sure of you as it is," she added.
He appeared considerably dejected at this, and said again and again that he did not know what could be done at all.
"We must compel him to sign a pardon," said Miss Macpherson, "we must put the fear of death upon him, Castleleathers. You are a very large, powerful man, as great in the chest as Muckle John himsel"—she paused, eyeing him keenly—"my certes," she cried, "but there's a notion for you ... could ye no let on you were Muckle John?"
"I ... Muckle John?My dear lady..."
"You are fatter than he and without his spirit of course, but how can the Duke tell that? I have a friend inside the Fort, a Macpherson, third cousin to my mother's step-daughter and a douce quiet man. He would do what he can though he has a sound respect for his neck."
"I am with him there," sighed Castleleathers. "I hope, madam, that you propose nothing rash."