"My man," she said stoutly, "when my blood's up I stick at nothing, be it Duke or gibbet."
After that there fell a most melancholy silence. The major, who had hoped to spend a peaceful old age, and who had stepped like a cat among puddles during the last disturbance, wished Muckle John far enough and Miss Macpherson much farther.
The whole heart of the warm fire (and it was a chill day) seemed to have fallen into thin ashes. He shivered dismally and took a dreary relish in praying that he might catch his death of cold.
Once he screwed his eye slowly about and let it rest moodily upon Miss Macpherson. But she was absorbed in her scheming, and that is a game that comes painfully to untutored persons.
"I see nothing for it," she said at last, "but just to shoot him."
"The Duke?" gasped Castleleathers.
"Who else—he'd be no loss. There's little of the William Wallace in you, my man."
"I am not wanting in personal courage," groaned Castleleathers, "indeed, I have seen service abroad, but this is beneath me, madam—quite beneath me."
Miss Macpherson leaped at a grim jest to bring him to his senses.
"There'll be nothing beneath ye if you don't," she said swiftly.
He recoiled from such a pleasantry. He had always deplored the brutality of utter frankness.
"Who knows," he said thoughtfully, "but a little playful threatening might not win our purpose, just a pistol waving carelessly in the hand, and a claymore at the side, the iron hand under the velvet glove, madam—ye take me?"
"I'll take ye right enough," said Miss Macpherson, "if Rob's life depends on us two, there'll be no shirking."
"If only my heart were in the work," sighed the major pensively, "I would not care a bawbee for the Duke or ony body. Could you not get in touch with Muckle John, the Duke is feared of him belike..."
"My man," broke in Miss Macpherson, "you are slow in the uptake,youare to be Muckle John."
He raised his head at that in a speechless tragedy of silence.
"Me?" he whispered. "Me Muckle John—oh, what is this nonsense you propose?"
"I have not decided upon it at random," she replied, "and it seems practicable. I have some knowledge of the Duke's habits, and let us but once get him alone and we will force him to sign a pardon for Rob. He goes south soon, so we must act at once. You, Castleleathers, must wrap yersel' up in a plaid to your nose and when we find him by himsel' you shall threaten his life."
"But you—where will you be?"
"I shall be watching ye—never fear—meet me to-morrow and we'll journey south. The final plans I'll devise, and dinna fail me or I'll tell the Duke how ye knew Lovat himsel', and they'll take ye to London as a witness."
"No, no," cried the major in a panic of fright, "I will be there never fear, but it's like I'll see London in a very different capacity."
As weeks passed on and still the searchers did not come Lord Lovat's hopes rose, and schemes no doubt began to run through his mind for a continuance of the struggle or a reconciliation with the Government. It may have occurred to him to send a diplomatic message to the Duke of Cumberland at Fort Augustus, but there is no evidence to show whether he took any definite steps until it was too late.
For long after the fateful visit of Murray of Broughton he had been prepared for immediate flight, but as time passed and nothing occurred to alarm him he took to sitting in the sun or playing a hand of cards, or brooding inside the cottage upon the transience of all human greatness.
There were with him about a score of Frasers, all armed with musket and sword, and Bishop Hugh Macdonald, who did not desert the old man in his hour of need.
It was on the first of June that the sloopFurnace and Terrorconveying a detachment of soldiers from the garrison of Fort William, came sailing down the coast of Knoidart and Arisaig. There they landed soldiers who began to march inland, making for Loch Morar.
It was on the north side of the loch that they espied a man making his way along the seashore—a very tall man who limped as he ran, being surprised in an open patch of country. Giving pursuit they spread out along the hill to cut him off, but when the man on the shore saw them he went away at a great pace, and had it not been that the loch curves outwards so as to make escape the more difficult, he might have gained the head of it, and won free. To avoid falling into their hands, however, he took to the loch and set out swimming for an island in the middle of it, making good headway before even they could get within shooting range.
And then, while they hunted for a boat, he scrambled upon the wooded shore and disappeared.
Lord Lovat was sitting before his cottage as the swimmer waded ashore. He looked up having dozed in the sunlight and fallen asleep.
Facing him, with water dripping from his clothes, was Muckle John.
For a moment he blinked, and then perceiving that the soldiers on the mainland were pushing a boat on to the loch he shrugged his shoulders.
"I was awaiting you," he remarked quietly, "but I did not look for red-coats! Even Murray, your last messenger, came alone."
Muckle John shook the water from his coat.
"Had I known you were here," he said, "I would rather have been taken."
Lovat was greatly puzzled, so puzzled he could only gape at him.
"Come," went on Muckle John, "there is not a moment to be lost. Get you into a boat, and away with you. Leave a dozen of your men here, we can hold them back awhile. But when you reach the mainland consider yourself no longer safe from me."
Lovat grinned at that.
"How you fight who's to have my poor body," he replied. "What if I stay quietly here? If it must be one or other, better Fort William, where I shall at least be protected from you."
"My lord," returned Muckle John, "you estimate Fort William over highly. But let that pass—come, sir, if you will not move I'll put you in a boat by force. They are half-way across. Will you rise or no?"
Very slowly Lovat got upon his legs.
"I'll go," he said simply, and crossing to the other side of the island permitted himself to be helped into a boat, and rowed to the Arisaig side.
For the next hour there raged a battle royal between the red-coats and the Frasers under Muckle John. Again and again they tried to take the island by storm but the fierce fire of the defending force drove them back to firing over the sides of their boats, and in the confusion no thought was given to the rear of the island and the flight of Simon, Lord Lovat.
At last in a brief respite Muckle John ordered the Frasers to the boats and pushing off they rowed with all haste out of range of the island upon which the English landed in due course.
On reaching the mainland Muckle John said farewell to the Frasers and limping into the shadows of the trees went his way. But late that night in a cave upon the side of Glen Morar he took the third piece of Fraser tartan from his sporran and threw it into the fire.
"It is a reckoning," he said in his heart, "that is more fitted for English hands than mine."
Near Meoble on the seventh day of June the soldiers came upon Lord Lovat hiding in a hollow tree. He had dismissed his followers in order to lead his pursuers off the trail. Quite alone, sitting upon his strong box, he surrendered his sword with his customary dignity and permitted himself to be taken on board the sloopFurnace.
As he was assisted up the side he encountered Captain Strange looking over the bulwark. Well he knew Strange's reputation as a spy and secret agent.
"I am sorry to see your lordship in this plight," said Strange with an undercurrent of malice in his voice.
Behind Lovat they brought his strong box, and when he saw it there he pursed his lips, but said nothing.
"The men report they were on the trail of Muckle John a day or two since," resumed Strange meaningly, "anything your lordship can tell us will not be forgotten. He is a dangerous man."
"My memory," replied Lovat slowly, "is so short that I cannot recollect. Was it Muckle John? He seemed a small fair man to me, but my eyes ye ken are no what they were."
"I understand," said Strange grimly, and led the way down to the cabin.
There Captain Duff and Captain Ferguson were awaiting them. And on the table lay the strong box over which Lovat had pored so many hours on the night of Culloden at Gortuleg.
Lovat was allowed to seat himself, and having done so appeared oblivious to the proceedings, and seemed to doze. In the box were many articles of personal value to him and these the searchers passed over. But near to the bottom of the box was a bundle of papers, and these they grabbed at and began to read.
At that point Lovat stirred and looking up remarked: "You will find nothing treasonable there..." watching them with a half smile on his lips.
But of a sudden he paled and leant forward.
In the hand of Captain Strange was a letter, in the Master of Lovat's writing. In some manner that fatal communication had been overlooked.
"Will you let me look at that letter?" asked the old man smoothly.
Strange hesitated and saw the tension in his eyes.
"I fear," he replied, "this must remain in the hands of the Government."
Lovat sank into his chair and shook his great white head in a melancholy way.
"I am too old," he said hardly above his breath.
"My lord," said Strange, "this letter is incriminating in the highest degree. Have you recollected yet whether it was Muckle John you met upon the island on Loch Morar?"
Lovat put one fat hand to his ear.
"I cannot catch what you say," he remarked blandly.
Strange repeated his question.
"I am sorry," said Lovat, "but at my age deafness is very prevalent."
And so in due course they took him to Fort William, carrying him in a litter, finding him very querulous over the bumpy places, and apt to gibe at them in Latin to his own cynical pleasure and their vague annoyance.
On the brow of the high ground close to Fort Augustus there sat a solitary man wrapped to his nose in a great Highland plaid. Night was falling and a thin drizzle of rain coming out of the west. The black outline of hills closed about the Fort as though to overwhelm it. No sound there was but the weary dripping of rain and the noise of running water over stones.
The figure on the mist-ridden hill-side never moved, but remained as lifeless as the crag behind him—part as it were of the tragic twilight.
Down in the Fort lights flickered here and there, and a horseman plunged out of the obscure light and entered the gates.
The man upon the hill never raised his head but watched him for all that, the rain pouring from his bonnet to his plaid and running in little streams upon the heather.
A bugle sounded down below. Following hard on its muffled notes came the clanging of the gates.
The Fort was closed for the night.
The swift darkness of a Highland night smoothed out the ragged line of mountain, obliterating with its travelling shadows the outlines of the desolate glen, the clumps of trees about the low-lying country and in a flash the man upon the hill. He had become in a breath of time inseparably of the night itself.
Long after a clear whistle sounded from the pathway below. It was followed by a softer longer whistle.
With a sigh the man upon the hill gained his feet, being very stiff and cold with waiting, and passing over the sodden heather stood looking about him into the mist. Presently two figures loomed into sight.
The first of them, wrapped like the man himself in the folds of a heavy plaid, addressed him in a familiar voice.
It was Miss Macpherson.
"Come, Castleleathers," she said, "here is the man Macpherson, he is letting a rope over the wall, and he has arranged all. The Duke expects a visitor from the west this very night or maybe to-morrow and he will be alone. Things are no so strict as they were, and there is a rumour that he goes south soon. He thinks the Highlands are crushed...."
"The German loon," snapped Castleleathers with much contempt, "he cannot tell the difference between a Hessian and a Macdonald."
"Come," said Miss Macpherson, "and say ye do not think hardly of me if anything goes wrong."
He took her hand and gave it a crunch.
"Tuts!" he said. "I'm no easy to move, but I like a ploy at a time. I feel younger to-night than I've felt this ten years. He's only a wee bit German after all."
Without another word they reached the Fort, and Macpherson, who seemed a capable man though silent as a dyke, passed through the gateway and disappeared.
They skirted the outer rampart noiselessly and taking up their stand some hundred yards beyond the entrance gates, awaited the rope.
A few minutes later and down it came, and steadying Miss Macpherson for fear she grew giddy and fell, they began to mount together, and reached the top. There all was very dark and quiet, and the mist obscured everything outside the reach of a man's arm.
The garrison had long since grown careless now that the Highland forces had been utterly dispersed and crushed. Even the Duke was growing lukewarm in persecution and anxious to bid farewell to the land of snow and mist and hear what London had to say to him for his brave doings. At that very moment he sat toasting his toes before a grand peat fire with a log or two to give it flame, a glass of mulled wine at his elbow.
The room in which he sat was very small and compact, the shutters drawn, and the seat in which he dozed one he had procured from the wreckage of a chief's house—a massive cushioned chair—with a back so high that it took a big man to see who entered the room.
He had dined as well as Highland rations would permit, and, like all Germans, he loved his food. He also relished the hour following his dinner. He had a kind of reverence for that sacred time.
To lounge before the fire on that dreary night of cold rain and mist, a night fit only for Highland cattle and suchlike, had its compensations. The last few months had brought their burden of anxiety and fatigue. The eve of Culloden had been enough to try any man's nerve. Had he lost—had he been taken or killed—there is little question that the English Crown would have changed hands. Perhaps he had been over hard on the barbarous people who had rebelled, but he was frightened. Looking back on it now, he saw that he had lost his head for a time. And now the country was subdued. He could return and listen to the things that London was waiting to say. There would be flags and banquets and honours. England was at his feet. Labour accomplished successfully has, indeed, its consolations.
He stirred the fire and listened to the crackle of the wood. It was a fine, brisk, homely noise on such a wretched night of driving rain and sleet. It was good to feel the rare glow of it on one's feet and knees. He wondered why it seemed so much better on a night of storm. He hunted in his mind for a reason. Suddenly he chuckled. He remembered the Young Pretender, sheltering for all he knew under a ledge of dripping rock, or in a byre for cattle. Bad weather cut two ways. It had its comforts for the victor—it lashed the fugitive most piteously.
He laughed outright at the notion. Where was he now, that silly young man? Yet not so young—his own age in solemn truth. Then all the more credit to himself. Where was he now, but on some open moor like a curlew in the night or a stag watching the way he had run.
His eyes shut and suddenly a snore rang through the firelit room.
At the same moment a tall and heavily plaided figure passed noiselessly across the space that divided the door from the table and stood there for a moment as though undecided in his mind what course to take. In the doorway there hung a heavy curtain. Behind this there was another form. One could see that by the curve of it inside the room.
On the table there lay a paper—a despatch apparently, and this the man behind the chair looked at idly with his thoughts upon the silent figure sunk in slumber.
But as he read he frowned, and then, very softly he gathered up the paper and returned to the doorway where his companion appeared, and together they passed out of sight.
In an adjoining room they paused, and together bent over the dispatch. It was dated two days since, from Loch Carron, and signed by Captain Strange. It stated that Neil Mackenzie had encountered Muckle John and Rob Fraser in the inn of Loch Carron, and in an attempt to capture them had suffered both in body and reputation, and that unless he was permitted to take vengeance upon them he and his following would cease to interest themselves in the business of the Government further. That Neil Mackenzie, himself, was even now journeying to Fort Augustus to explain the matter, and that he advised that it might reflect less on the Government if the affair was left in Highland hands. The remainder of the dispatch dealt with the state of the district, the capture of Lord Lovat, and concluded with the words: "There are reasons why it would be expedient if neither Muckle John or Rob Fraser stood their trial, but were reduced to silence by some other course, in fact if your Highness could see your way to disarming their suspicions and the suspicions of the Jacobites in some way, it would leave the road clear for Mackenzie."
"This Mackenzie," whispered Miss Macpherson, "is like to be the end of Rob I'm thinking. It is evident that he has suffered at the hands of Muckle John...."
"And means mischief," added Castleleathers.
In the room down the passage the snores of the Duke rolled peacefully on.
Miss Macpherson paused, turning the matter over in her practical mind.
"Have you ever seen this Neil Mackenzie?" she asked at last.
He shook his head.
"I never had dealings with Mackenzies," he replied.
"Then why not take his place, my man? The Duke canna tell one tartan from another. Hear what he has to say. Tell him your people are mortally offended with Muckle John."
"But what of Mackenzie himself?"
Her face hardened.
"Mackenzie must be sent upon his business," she said, "and what is more, he must never reach the Fort."
"One ploy at a time," said Castleleathers, "and here goes for the first."
With that he tip-toed back and replaced the dispatch, then with a heavy tread walked down the passage, and knocked upon the door.
"Who is there?" cried the Duke starting from sleep.
"Neil Mackenzie, your Highness."
Cumberland pushed the chair about.
In the room he saw a great man standing muffled to his face in a plaid. He had the bearing of a robber chief, but one never knew with these terrible Highlanders.
"I 'ave 'eard ov you," said the Duke civilly enough, despite his harsh Teutonic voice, "two hours since I received a despatch from Captain Strange referring to some trouble between you and Muckle John."
"My people," said Castleleathers, turning his face to the shadow, "have received an affront which can only be wiped out in one way. We are prepared to serve the Government with loyalty and we look to your Highness to remember it."
The Duke took up the paper and read it through very carefully.
"Zey are both dangerous Jacobites," he said, "and there are reasons vy zis Muckle John should not stand 'is trial in London. He knows too much, Mr. Mackenzie. There are things we vish to keep to ourselves for a little—you understand?"
Castleleathers bowed his head.
"There is the boy too," he said.
Cumberland shrugged his shoulders.
"Now that Lovat is taken, I care no dings for 'im. But he vill serve to put you on the trail of the other."
"He is elusive, your Highness—there is no telling how we can lay hands on him unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Your Highness could appear to have pity on his youth and issue a pardon. It would be an act of clemency and what followed would only point to clan jealousy."
Cumberland frowned. He was a straight-forward man with an aversion for subterfuge.
"I do nod like your Highland vays," he said grumpily, "why not hang the boy in the ordinary vay? Muckle John is a different matter. I see no reason for this pardon."
Castleleathers played his last card.
"There are wheels within wheels," said he, "we know that this Muckle John has pledged his word to preserve the life of the boy. When we have the boy in our hands, for he will come home on receiving his pardon, we will have the bait for the catching of Muckle John. Two rebels will have gone, your Highness, and none the wiser. There are things this Muckle John could say that would sound badly in a trial...."
"I know, I know," said Cumberland, ill at ease, "but surely there are odder vays...."
Castleleathers shrugged his shoulders.
"It is all we have asked," he said, "and we are not a small clan."
The Duke noted the menace in his voice and controlled his anger with an effort.
"At anodder time," he said, "I would see you var enough, but I am sick to death of all this futile business and the wrangles of one clan with another. Have it as you will."
He strode to the table, took a piece of paper out of a drawer and began to write upon it.
"Here," he said crossly, "is ze pardon for Rob Fraser, and now let me hear no more of Muckle John."
"Your Highness has acted wisely," said Castleleathers smoothly, and a minute later took his leave.
Backwards and forwards tramped the Duke of Cumberland, his thoughts deep again upon his departure for London and the brave times ahead. Forgotten was all the hardship of the last few months—the poor fare and dreary weather. He was like a man saying a glad farewell to a desolate country of savages.
"It is but half done," whispered Castleleathers to Miss Macpherson when they stood once more upon the heather, "he has forgotten Rob and is like a man eaten up with longing for the south. I've seen such before. There is still Mackenzie. He may be upon us any minute, and what is it to be, the sword or a dunt upon the head."
"A Mackenzie," remarked Miss Macpherson, like to overflow with joy at the pardon, "is neither here nor there, but what of the swarm? You may kill one bee, but dinna forget the hive."
"True," said Castleleathers, "which way will he come?"
"He will come by this very road—I doubt but we'll meet him any minute."
It was long before they heard the sound of a horse thudding up the glen, and very soon the squelch of its feet in the sodden ground. Instantly they crouched by the way, and then as the horseman drew level with them they raised their heads and took him in at a glance. He was a very heavily built man, muffled up in a riding cloak and with a bonnet upon his head.
"A Mackenzie if ever there was one," whispered Castleleathers, and starting up came upon him from the slope of the hill and hauled him off his beast so that he uttered one startled cry and sprawled in the heather with his legs in the air. In the same grim silence, Castleleathers was upon his chest and with a dirk at his throat.
"Is it to be the quick passage," he whispered in Gaelic, "or do you swear to do what is said?"
There was a long silence.
Mackenzie upon his back and helpless as a child was trying to see the tartan of the man above him.
"Neil Mackenzie," said Castleleathers, "unless you forget what brought you here this night, you are not like to remember it at all."
"Who are you?" gasped Mackenzie, trying to see the better.
"I," replied Castleleathers, "am Muckle John."
"Muckle John?" He doubted it, but it was black darkness where they lay amongst the heather.
"What of the affair Loch Carron way?" continued Castleleathers. "You came poorly enough out of that. But I have a mind to end it this time. I am not a patient man and no one has dealings against me who does not at last regret it."
"I will go back," said Mackenzie in a heavy tone like a man beaten once and for all.
"You must tell your people that you are satisfied with the answer the Duke has given you."
"I will—I swear it!"
Castleleathers drew back and leaped to his feet.
"Away then!" he said, "the road to the west lies clear. But if you so much as dream of treachery—-no power can save you."
In silence Mackenzie caught his horse and mounting it took the road for home, all the courage gone out of him. All that night he rode, and the next day, and when he reached Loch Carron he gave no word at all, but bore the aspect of a man who fears to look over his shoulder in the gloaming.
As for Castleleathers and Miss Macpherson, being both people over middle life, they made their way stiffly homewards to an inn near Fort Augustus.
It was over a basin of hot brose that he turned to her.
"I am past ploys like these," he said, "but it smacks of the old days."
"The young ones are no like the old ones," sighed Miss Macpherson.
"None so old," rejoined Castleleathers, smiling at her suddenly.
Miss Macpherson busied herself with her plate.
"It's after Rob we must go the morn," she said.
"It has been a great night," he remarked, nodding before the fire, "that Mackenzie was sair taken aback."
"The Duke is no sae difficult to manage as folk say," hazarded Miss Macpherson.
"Young blood," grunted Castleleathers, "he only needs managing."
"You're all the same," murmured Miss Macpherson slyly.
Of the travelling of Rob to the south there is little enough to tell until he reached Rannoch, the country of Robertsons and Stewarts, and other clans more like to pick a pocket than to cry God-speed.
On the evening following the departure of Muckle John, Rob had bartered with a pedlar upon the road for a suit of old clothes, and too fearful of the future to refuse the exorbitant price demanded, he gave him some silver and buried his kilt in a mountain pool.
And so, with more confidence, he stepped out towards the south, and reached Loch Linnhe without misadventure. It was his intention to avoid all the district about Fort William by taking boat to the other side.
In this manner he passed through Glencoe and travelling by day, reached the head of Loch Rannoch in a dusk of drizzling rain.
Now the country that includes Rannoch, Lochaber and Breadalbane had no rival for insubordination in those days. It swarmed with broken men—cattle thieves and desperadoes of all kinds owning fealty to none but their own good pleasure, and only Jacobite so far as it was politic to be, and with an unsleeping eye to the plunder of the Lowlands.
It was with anxious steps, therefore, that Rob approached a solitary huddle of buildings lying in a snug hollow of the hills, thatched to the colour of the brown trees, with here and there a patch of young heather over the top of it. It was strangely hidden and quiet, with all the look of an old inn fallen on evil days.
For long Rob stared at it with dubious eyes; there was so little life about it, and so much that was mysteriously ominous. Though drenched with the thin hill rain, craving for food and shelter, he was in a half mind to continue his way, when the face of a man looked through the small hole in the side that served for a window—a green-white face it was, with staring unwavering eyes.
But where there was a living soul there would be food and shelter and Rob stepped forward, forgetting his secret fear. Inside the place, however, there was no sound, but only the monotonous dripping of water upon the muddy floor. In the centre of the room there hung a great pot upon a chain from the roof, and the place was so full of peat reek that it took him a few minutes to see where the man had gone.
Against the wall were layers of rushes, and a narrow stairway led up to a kind of loft about six feet above the floor. Under the loft were the cows. He could hear them coughing fitfully through the wooden partition.
It was a poor enough place and leaking from a score of holes, but it was warm, and so tired was he that he sat down before the peats and warmed his hands.
Presently the door opened and the man re-entered. Rob wondered how he had managed to come that way. He started when he saw Rob, but wished him good-day civilly enough and inquired if he could provide him with anything. He was a sallow, secretive looking fellow, with a tangled beard and hair and a terrible squint.
"You are passing south maybe," he said, busying himself about the place.
With some uneasiness Rob replied that he was journeying to Edinburgh seeking employment.
"It is a Stewart you will be?" remarked the man, squinting terribly.
"No," said Rob, "I am a Fraser."
"A Fraser," he echoed, "I take it you can pay your way."
"I can that," said Rob with some indignation for fear he should be sent back into the rain, and with a foolish notion that the man might be of assistance he drew out a dozen silver coins and clinked them in his open hand.
In the blue smoke of the place the man paused. He stood perfectly still with his ghastly squint accentuated. Then putting some meat into the pot he set the lid on, and going to the door spoke to some one outside. This he did so casually that Rob suspected nothing, but sat dozing before the warm glow, utterly spent and stupid with fatigue.
It must have been about eight of the clock that he finished his supper, and asked to be shown to a place to sleep. This the innkeeper did very readily, lighting him up the narrow stairway into the loft and pointing to a heap of dry heather in a corner. Out in the night the rain was falling dismally and below him Rob could hear the warm and comfortable breathing of the cows. Yet, tired though he was, a curious dread of falling asleep came on him. There was something about the place that set his nerves on edge. Was it the eerie silence of it—lost amongst the lonely elbow of the loch? But that was nothing new to him. Was it the strange catlike movements of the man with the squint? But he was probably a decent enough creature unused to strangers. Or was there danger lurking in the place, memories of dreadful things done there in the black darkness? His hand instinctively sought the dirk at his side.
It was gone!
In an instant he was upon his feet. Whether the man below had stolen it or not he dare not take the risk of staying in that lonely place unarmed. He must make his way into the night and trust to fortune that he would evade pursuit should there be any.
Very softly he felt his way about, hunting for a window or trapdoor. But there was no way of escape. Under the door leading to the stairway shone a rim of light thrown up by the peat fire below, and in one place where the wood had been eaten by mice there was a round hole large enough to command the room beneath. He lay at his length and peered down.
To his horror there were four men gathered about the fire—the innkeeper and three ragged, crouching figures, with cruelty and murder written all over their faces. They were dressed in a tartan so filthy and stained with rain and mud that Rob was ignorant of their clan. They were shaggy as cattle beasts, dirty, smoke-blackened fellows, below the average size, active as wild cats, and chattering in whispers like a crew of unwashed monkeys. Even in the remnants of the Chevalier's army Rob had not encountered such as these. Only in Lochaber and Rannoch could such scourings of the clans be found until one met the red Macgregors which Providence forfend.
The innkeeper had his back turned to the stairway, but by the motion of his hands Rob read what he said like an open page. He was telling them of the silver that he, in his rashness, had exposed.
In the red firelight Rob could see their eyes gleam beneath their matted hair. With hypnotized gaze he watched a man unsheath his dirk and make a gesture significant enough, and with a gurgle in the throat requiring no explanation. So that was to be the end of it all—a secret murder by a band of lawless caterans ready to prey upon every stranger luckless enough to beg a night's lodging. He would never see Muckle John again. It made him wonder what he would have done to save his life. Muckle John always had a way.
HE WATCHED ONE OF THE MEN UNSHEATH HIS DIRK AND MAKE A GESTURE SIGNIFICANT ENOUGH.HE WATCHED ONE OF THE MEN UNSHEATH HIS DIRKAND MAKE A GESTURE SIGNIFICANT ENOUGH.
Down below the men had risen to their feet. He saw them standing in their own steam, their heads close together, and their beards wagging as they whispered. Then one by one they approached the stairway. A wild terror seized him at that. The soft pat of their brogues upon the rungs of the ladder and the creak of it under their weight was like to make him scream.
Starting back he stood upon the trap door in the empty hope that they would not be able to lift it. A moment, and he felt it give a faint heave under him. It was delivered gently, as though the man on the ladder suspected it would be stiff or difficult to push back.
And then there was absolute silence.
Did they suspect that he was awake? Rob listened intently. But what he heard was the innkeeper softly ordering them back, and at that moment there sounded outside in the night a man's voice calling.
Once more Rob lay upon the floor and peered below. Around the fire the men were sitting as before. In the doorway the innkeeper was standing with the firelight upon his back. Outside there was the humid noise of a horse losing its hold in sopping ground, and again a voice called—
"Can you give me shelter?"
With a backward glance the innkeeper disappeared, leaving those crouching figures utterly silent. To Rob a wild flash of hope flamed suddenly. Who could say but this might be a friend in distress?
He heard the innkeeper open the door in the byre below him and stall the horse; but he never moved in his eagerness to watch who should enter the place. Suddenly a man looked in at the group about the fire, and hesitated as though he wished himself back upon the road. Then, entering, he drew off his cloak.
It was John Murray of Broughton.
The three men round the fire made no motion, threatening or otherwise. They crouched on their haunches as before, watching him under their shaggy eyebrows.
Murray, who was no coward in ordinary circumstances, but only highly strung and with the Lowland caution, stood out of their range obviously ill at ease, awaiting the innkeeper's return.
To Rob he looked very worn and hollow-cheeked and his clothes cheap and ill-fitting like the dress of a small Ayrshire farmer. A sword was at his side and there was a bulge in his coat-pocket like the butt end of a pistol, but Rob took little comfort from that, knowing how poor a defence a single man like Murray would put up under a swift attack.
The innkeeper re-entered the room and, shutting the door, barred it across with a heavy slab of wood. For weal or woe they were there till morning.
He motioned Murray forward saying nothing, and the men about the fire made room for him, watching him all the time as dogs eye a stranger, ready at a word to fling themselves upon his throat.
Murray hesitated before he sat down and cast one fleeting glance about the room. A sudden inclination came to Rob to shout a warning and leap down to join him before it was too late. But he knew that they would complete their evil work before even he could take a part.
The innkeeper stirred the iron pot and drew out a hank of meat upon a dirk. This he handed to Murray, who took it in a dejected fashion and began to eat, and very quietly, while Rob watched him in a stupor of horror, he stepped behind him. But he made no attack. Instead he shook his head at the others and jerked a thumb towards the room where Rob lay watching them. They evidently purposed to kill them both at one and the same time.
Underneath him the horse coughed and rattled its bit. Only an inch or two of wood between him and safety—only a thin decayed layer of wood. A rat was gnawing in a far corner; he heard it squeak in the darkness. Down below they were sitting quite speechless about the fire, waiting for the newcomer to seek his sleep. Murray was white and brooding, knowing no Gaelic, certain that danger was all about him, nodding with weariness and ever pulling up for dread of what was biding its time to strike. In haste Rob examined the flooring of the loft. His fingers ran along the fringes of the boards. No flaw, no splintered grain, no crumbling of worm-eaten plank. Still the rat gnawed with steady persistence in the far corner. Perhaps there was a way there. He groped about, and his hands encountered a sack propped up against the wall. It was very heavy but he moved it gradually. The rat scuttled away and dropped out of the room. He heard it fall upon the soft mud below, and into his face there rose the warm smell of cows.
Breathlessly he examined the flooring behind the sack, and at the corner where the thing had stood his hands groped in vacancy. There was a hole a foot in breadth. Without delay he gripped the frayed edge, where the rat had gnawed, in his strong muscular fingers and, setting his feet against the wall opposite him, strained to his fullest power.
With a sharp crack it broke away—a good two feet. Underneath the horse snorted with sudden fear; it seemed to be only a few inches beneath his hand. Lying full length, he stretched down into the pitch darkness and touched its ear, soothing it with a whisper.
The way lay clear.
Then, regaining his feet, he stole back to the other end of the place and looked down upon the men below. It was a curious, somewhat pathetic sight that met his eyes. Murray was upon his feet and bidding them good night. He looked as though he knew in his heart what deed they intended, and was on the point of appealing to their chivalry (if they had any), and yet too proud to do so. In the end he only bowed and, taking a rushlight from the innkeeper, climbed slowly up the stairway and lifted the trap-door.
Now it was evident to Rob that if Murray, unnerved by illness and fatigue came upon him suddenly, he might hesitate or utter a cry, and for this reason he hid himself behind the sack until he was in the room and the trap-door shut, when he whispered, "Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray," as gently as he could.
There was a sharp sound like a gasp, and Murray replied in the same tone, "Who is it?"
With his finger on his lips, Rob appeared before him.
"Quick!" he whispered, "lift the sack with me and put it upon the trap-door. It will serve for a few minutes. They are cut-throats down there."
For an instant Murray fumbled with his sword and then, controlling himself, he aided Rob, though his strength was not of much value at such a time.
Fortunately for them, the four men below were hard at it together, whispering in Gaelic, and evidently in high feather over the business ahead, so that they did not hear the moving of the sack. That accomplished, Rob drew Murray to the far corner.
"Your horse is below," he said; "drop down and soothe him while I wait in case they come. Give me your sword. Lead him out upon the road and I'll join you there."
It was strange to take orders from a boy, but Murray had no option in such circumstances. He was no Highlander and had no foolish pride. Without a word, he slipped into the blackness of the stall, and Rob heard him patting his beast and turning it towards the door.
At that same moment however there came a noise at the sack that sent Rob across the floor with the naked sword-blade in his hand.
The trap-door lifted very slowly; a hand crept under its ledge and gripped the rough boarding a few inches from Rob. There was not a moment to delay. Falling upon his knees, he lunged into the darkness below. Instantly there rose a most horrible cry, something fell with a dull thud, and the trap-door banged upon the blade shivering it from the hilt downwards.
For his folly Rob was defenceless again.
But there was far worse to come, for at the noise of that terrible stricken voice there came a wild plunging of a horse outside and the dying thud of feet. Murray of Broughton was gone. Perhaps his beast bolted with terror; perhaps he waited and dreaded that Rob was killed—who can tell? He was of all men least able to endure suspense.
At that calamity there came to Rob a wild terror of the place and a panic to be gone. He reached the hole in the corner and dropped down upon the mud below. The fresh rain was blowing in upon his face from the open doorway where Murray had passed. He was out in it with a rush and into the friendly darkness, where he halted.
No movement came from the lonely inn—no cries or noise of any kind, only a brooding, death-like quiet as though the place were uninhabited or thronged with ghosts. In a kind of ghastly horror, he hesitated and then stole back, overcome by a curiosity too overwhelming to be crushed. Back he came and peered into the byre. But there was no sound—not even a rat gnawing at the wood. It was cold and forsaken. He crept round the outer wall, safe in the night whatever might occur, and stared at the black door where he had entered at the dusk, seeing no gleaming firelight on the wall.
The rain had stopped of a sudden, and a faint glimmer of starlight showed in the doorway black and void. There was no door but only a huddle of stones. Nearer he crept, until at last he could look into the room itself.
And at that he took to his heels and ran blindly into the night—anywhere so long as he was well away from that grim and desolate house.
For in the room there was no fire, no staircase nor any sign of living soul. Nothing but an empty, roofless ruin under the open sky.
All that weeping night of rain Rob travelled towards Glen Lyon glad for every foot of heather between him and the weird house upon the loch. Passing through the country of the Mackenzies he reached Killin, and there fell in with a band of gipsies sitting round their camp fire. They numbered about a score—men, women, and little brown children—and they welcomed him to share their meat in the kindliest manner, asking no questions and displaying no curiosity in his affairs. Only the chief knew Gaelic, and he was all the more ready to hear the news of the north from Rob, who gathered that his affection for the red-coats was by no means warm.
Rob accepted his kindness with a qualm of self reproach. It had suddenly occurred to him that in accepting such a wealth of hospitality he was endangering them to the vengeance of the Government. Such a prospect was not to be contemplated.
"Let me speak to you alone," he said to the chief.
In the privacy of the tent he told him all.
"I will not attempt to deny," said he, "that there are those who would give much to capture me, not for any importance I may have, but because of another...."
The gipsy followed his words with expressionless attention. Then rising he drew a paper from his pocket.
"Read," he said simply.
It was a Government notice for posting up under gibbets and suchlike, intimating that anyone who laid one, Rob Fraser, by the heels, dead or alive, would receive a reward of fifty pounds. Rob turned cold at the dreadful wording of it. It described him minutely, and went on to say that he was last seen with the notorious rebel called "Muckle John."
"You knew?" said he at last.
The other laughed softly.
"What does it matter?" he replied, "but I thank you for your confidence, and when next you see Muckle John say that Gloom the Gipsy has not forgotten him."
"Are you a friend of Muckle John?"
"I may be counted such, though he has no lack of friends—or enemies."
"But I cannot imperil your people, it is more than is reasonable."
"Rob Fraser," said Gloom very gravely, "you are as good as taken. The soldiers are watching for you on the Highland Line, and from here to Stirling is alive with spies. To-morrow we will carry you through Balquhidder, for if you fell foul of the wild caterans there it would be a short shift for you."
"Balquhidder—I have heard the name...."
He laughed outright at that.
"It's clear ye are north country bred," he said, "there are more thieves Balquhidder way than in Lochaber itself."
Thankful indeed for his good fortune Rob bade his friend good-night, and lying down before the fire was soon fast asleep.
With the dawn they were marching towards Crianlarich where they took to the heather, and crossing the hills came down upon Loch Doine at the head of Balquhidder. As they streamed into the flat country at the top of the loch they passed a square thatched house at the foot of the slope facing the amber stream.
"That is Inverlochlarig where Rob Roy died," said Gloom. "I mind him well, a great red man with a heart of gold. But his sons are corbies, and I am hoping we do not meet them."
All up the side of the stream the cottages of the Macgregors clustered, with the thin veil of peat reek hanging above them in a kind of haze.
Without halting they passed over the flat marshy land that lay between the two ranges of mountain, and approached a small compactly built house upon the other side of the burn.
"We will stop here for the night," said Gloom, "and maybe Invernenty will see us. He is no friend of the Macgregors, being son of John Maclaren who was murdered by Robin Oig."
Leaving Rob he crossed the narrow stream and knocking upon the door exchanged some words with a woman who opened it. But to all that he said she only shook her head, and he returned somewhat discomfited.
"She says that Invernenty is not at home," he said, calling him by the name of his place, "and yet I am doubting her unless he is taken."
Without delay they set their camp, and during the day several Macgregors came over and eyed them secretly, red men in a red tartan—querulous, hot-blooded fellows.
Rob, ill at ease in a strange country, kept in the background, but in the afternoon seeing a great crowd of them gathered about a place up the glen he accompanied Gloom, being wearied of sitting alone.
The Macgregors with a sprinkling of Maclarens were handling a curious smooth stone with holes for a finger and a thumb, and competing with one another in lifting it upon a small rock that stood in close proximity.
A tall dark sombre-looking man leaning upon a rude crutch and with a pale harassed face was regarding the scene from a little distance. He was dressed in riding clothes and with a greatcoat buttoned up closely as though he were ill. Rob was on the point of asking who he was when he became aware of the other's close scrutiny.
There was something dangerously interested in the manner he stared—taking him in with his dark cunning eyes, measuring his height in his mind—the set of his face, conjuring up every detail circumspectly.
"Gloom," said Rob in a whisper, "there's a man up on the brae has a notion who I am."
Very casually the gipsy turned about.
"Misfortune take it," he murmured, "but it is James More, son of Rob Roy, new come from Culloden. He was wounded, ye mind."
Presently without a word or any sign James Macgregor moved painfully away and entered Inverlochlarig.
"Come, Rob," said Gloom, "I would not trust that man a foot. He is up to mischief, and it's like enough we were better over Glenbucket than here."
Evening drew on, but there was no sign of trouble. At the rising of the moon, however, a tall gaunt woman with a plaid over her head asked for a word with the gipsy. They went apart together and conferred in low tones. And then as silently as she had come the woman vanished into the shadows.
"Rob," said Gloom, "there's danger threatening—when was there not in this wild country? Who do you think that was?"
Rob shook his head.
"Who but John Maclaren himself, new come from giving the red-coats the go-bye on the road to Carlisle. He says James is up to his pranks, and that the clan are scared to death at the very sight of you in the heart of their country. It is away we must go, Rob," and summoning his men they prepared to set out, leaving their camp fires burning in case their flight was suspected. Over the cleft in the hills they went, and crossing the top of Beinn-an-Shithein, came down on Strathyre and Castle Murdoch.
"There is a strange man lives there," said the gipsy to Rob, "it's like enough he will send us about our business should we stop."
"Who are ye?" snarled a voice at that moment from the wall of the place, "ye canna bide hereabouts."
The moon had risen and under its clear rays Rob looked up and saw a white-haired man watching them from the rampart.
"What kind of night skulking is this?" he cried.
"I am Gloom," replied the gipsy.
"And who is that with you, he is none of your people."
"He is a friend, Murdoch."
"Bring him here—this is an ill time for friends," and he disappeared.
A few minutes later they saw him crossing the courtyard, a lamp swinging in his hand, limping through a shortness of his right leg, and frowning at them as he peered through the shattered iron gates.
"Come nearer," he rasped, "you boy there with the borrowed claes."
Rob took a step towards him so that the light streamed down upon his features.
"Humph!" grunted Murdoch, cocking his eyes at the gipsy, "it is queer company ye're taken up with, my man. Do ye ken who that is with his innocent face and braw blue eyes? That's the lad of Muckle John."
"Whist!" warned Gloom, "the very rocks have ears."
At that moment a little girl came running over the courtyard.
"What did ye say of Muckle John?" she asked.
"Gang to your bed, Ethlenn," screamed the old man. "Janet, away with the bairn."
A woman ran out into the twilight. There was a noise of sudden crying and a door banged.
"Can we bide the night here?" asked the gipsy, but with poor enough heart in it.
"Bide the night," echoed Murdoch sharply, "bide the night in company with yon? Can ye—by the dogs of Lorn I think ye're crazed. What have I ever done to ye that ye should mak' me sic a daft-like proposal?"
"It is no use, Rob," said Gloom sadly.
With a kind of horror at his own notoriety Rob turned away and passed down the slope. He heard the voice of Murdoch raised in shrill anger and falling into nothingness on the wind. Behind him trooped the gipsies, uncomplaining but dispirited, streaming towards Strathyre.
And so passing through the sleeping village they reached the narrow defile at the head of Loch Lubnaig, and ascending the hillside passed a dreary night.
It was just before the dawn of the next day that Rob came to a decision, which appeared to him the only wise and honest thing to do. He wrote a brief note to Gloom thanking him for his great kindness, and stating that he would be far towards the south by the morning.
Then stepping between the gipsies' sleeping forms he came down upon the loch and set off at a trot for Kilmahog.
Many days afterwards—days full to the brim of danger and heavy travelling, Rob reached Edinburgh and wandered about the High Street. He had managed to purchase another set of clothes, and for the present he deemed himself safe, and on the morrow he would keep his tryst with Muckle John at Leith.
It was about midday that he saw a great coach lumbering over the rude cobbles jolting and groaning, and about it a party of dragoons. A sudden fear gripped him that perchance this was a prisoner, who knew—perhaps Muckle John himself.
He pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Nearer clattered the dragoons, a braver sight than when they had entered that same street in the year '45. The horses straining at the coach were level with him now, and he bent forward, his eyes glued to the window. It was but a flash, but he never forgot it.
For lolling forward, leering grotesquely either in derision or some kindred emotion, sat Simon, Lord Lovat, bound for London and Tower Hill.
His small shrewd eyes travelling over the crowd settled for an instant upon Rob, and contracted suddenly as though he half recollected him, but was not sure. Then he was gone, and that was the last of the Fraser.
The scene sobered what little foolhardiness there was left in Rob. It made him walk less abroad. The arm of the law was long, but the arm of the Government was longer.
More than once he had a curious intuition on that afternoon that he was being followed. It might be only an accident, but he had run into two slouching frowsy rascals on two separate occasions, and each time they had stared very hard and looked back at him over their shoulders.
At last overcome by fear of capture he had taken to his heels and run up one close and down another, being quite unfamiliar with the City, but only anxious to shake off any shadowing. After he had doubled and dodged for a full half-hour he took cover upon an ancient stairway beside the White Horse Inn, and there he waited to see what would happen and whether there were really any upon his trail. It was about five minutes later that the noise of a man panting up the lane set him keeking down to see who came so hastily. To his dismay it was one of the loafers of the afternoon, and hard on his heels the other. They passed at a run and their footsteps died away.
Then speeding in the opposite direction Rob found a lodging in another inn, and slept far into the following day—the day on which he was to meet Muckle John and win to freedom at last. After all the turmoil and distress of the weeks following Culloden, it was a strange enough sensation to think of the great towns ahead in Holland or France, where there was no dire necessity to keep one eye over your shoulder and the other cocked upon the end of the street, and where a Jacobite was not considered food for the nearest gallows tree.
So thinking (and yet with misgiving for all that) Rob passed cannily out of Edinburgh and along the way to Leith, and again the dread fear that he was being followed took possession of him. The sun was falling when he saw the lonesome gibbet tree stuck up against the skyline. On it the body of some luckless creature was swinging in its chains—he could just catch the dreary creaking on the wind.
He looked backward for the twentieth time. But all the desolate landscape seemed empty of living soul or beast.
And yet he could have sworn that he had seen a head dodge behind the tussock of coarse rank grass just on the top of the mound. He was so sure of it he ran back, but when he reached it there was nothing. Then bending as a true hillsman reads the ground he saw the fresh mark of a boot in the wet sand.
There was danger lurking amongst the dunes, and still no sign of Muckle John.
Out on the Firth of Forth a ship was running up her canvas to the breeze, and it set him wondering in an idle fashion whether Muckle John might not be already aboard starting for France.
And then the sunlight faded and the greyness of the gloaming crept up from the sea.
Clink, clink, went the chains upon the forlorn gibbet tree, and with a deeper rustier note as the wood groaned and shuddered in its joints.
He walked slowly up the sloping sandy path. Above him, black above the evening sky swung the dead man—some poor soul less guilty of wrong maybe than he himself.
Then sitting upon a heap of sand beside the dreary burden with its dismal refrain he waited for what might befall. That there was danger afoot he knew instinctively, but his great reliance upon Muckle John seemed to almost dissipate such perils. There was a mountain of strength in Muckle John.
The darkness was falling fast when of a sudden, like the spring of a leopard for swiftness, a man was upon his back and with the crook of his arm around his throat. Uttering one faint cry Rob tumbled backwards, and before he could struggle to his feet, his legs were gripped by another man and a third flung himself bodily upon his chest.
As far as Rob was concerned the question of France was over and done with. It was a sad enough ending to all his brave adventures to be bowled over by three vagabonds on Leith sands, and trussed like a hen.
But there was more in it than that.
For out of the twilight came a tall man walking at his leisure, and even before he spoke Rob knew him for Captain Strange.
"Well," he said quietly, "so this is the end, Rob, and what a braw place to be sure. It was almost tempting providence with that clinking cratur to warn ye."
He motioned to the men to leave them, and sitting down began to talk in an affable pleasant manner as though he were discussing the weather or the price of stocks.
"Hark ye, Rob," he said, "I ken fine who ye're waiting for. It's Muckle John no less, and what I have in my mind I must say quickly. Now we want this little business carried through expeditiously and with discretion. We do not want any pranks, mind ye, and ye ken Muckle John as a man as full of tricks as a monkey. I want ye to sit here, Rob, until he comes, and promise me no to say a word to set him thinking. If ye carry this out I will say what I can for you when the time comes."
"I will shout a warning while I have breath in my body," cried Rob.
"Very good," replied Strange, "very good; in that case I will gag you surely enough, and here goes."
With that he stuffed a pad of cloth into his mouth and fastened a bandage round his cheeks. Then springing to his feet he listened intently. Very faintly the sound of whistling drifted up from the sands. Up above the gibbet chains creaked to and fro, and in the tragic silence of the twilight the man came trudging to his doom.
Strange darted into the dunes for his men: It was like to go hard with Muckle John.
It was all over as the newcomer stooped over Rob. With a muffled shout he fell and rose again, and writhing spasmodically was stunned to silence. From the size of him Rob knew it could be none other than Muckle John.
"A light!" cried Strange, in high glee over it all.
They swung a lantern nearer and turned their prisoner over upon his back.
And there, glaring up at them with apoplectic rage lay James Fraser of Castleleathers. It was a moment full of gall for Strange.
As for Castleleathers, worthy man, being much bruised and scratched and with a bump like an egg on his head, it was a mercy that he had no breath to express his feelings on the matter. But when he did he only added to Strange's mortification. For on hearing of the plan to capture Muckle John which (being a professed Hanoverian) he could not criticize adversely, he expressed a deep regret that he had not beguiled the rebel with his conversation, having met him upon the road a mile back.
"A mile back," cried Strange, "then he will come here yet."
"No," said Castleleathers in his methodical tone, "no, I think not, for he has boarded a ship for France."
Strange uttered an exclamation of disgust.
"I told you he would throw you over, Rob, when the time came," said he with a sour look.
Certainly it appeared like it.
But Castleleathers had more to say.
"Will you give me a hearin'," he broke in peevishly. "Muckle John would have come, but I counselled him not."
"You did?" screamed Strange. "But this is open treason, Major Fraser."
"No," said Castleleathers stoutly, "oh no, I assure you there is no more loyal servant of the King than I. But I saw no service that he could render Rob, except to endanger him as an associate of a notorious Jacobite."
"Indeed," said Strange, "but Rob is none so far removed from that himsel'. He is like enough to take the place of the hanged one above ye, Major Fraser."
"Pardon me, no," replied Castleleathers blandly, "here I have a pardon for Rob signed by the Duke himsel'."
"It's a forgery," cried Strange hotly, "let me see it."
"In my hands, Captain Strange—no, stand back a wee—hold the light higher, now can ye see? Will you dispute that, my man? There is his royal signature, bless him!"
Strange eyed it gloomily.
"There is something queer about this," he said. "I will see the Duke."
Castleleathers smiled.
"All the way to London?" he asked. "The Duke will not thank ye."
Over their heads the haunted chains jingled merrily. It must have been a rare joke to send them clinking like that. Suddenly from the ends of nowhere there was a sound like a smothered laugh.
"What was that?" whispered Strange, looking furtively about.
"I heard nothing," replied Castleleathers, then starting to his feet, "but surely there is the noise of a horse."
"A horse," said Strange, "who knows it may be Muckle John himself."
"No," corrected Castleleathers composedly, "no, I think not. I think—in fact I am sure—it is my wife."
"Your wife!" cried Rob, who had worked the gag out at last, and who had been apparently overlooked in the discussion.
Castleleathers switched about.
"Bless us," he said, "I had clean forgotten ye, Rob, you were so quiet. What's amiss with you?"
"I am bound hand and foot."
"Mercy me," said Castleleathers, "but you have a queer way with you, Captain Strange. There ye are, Rob," and he set him free, "and now what's there so wonderful in my having a wife? She's your ain aunt Macpherson. It's my nephew ye are, Rob, and if I ever hear of this Jacobite business again I'll skelp ye mair than she ever did, poor woman."
It was indeed Miss Macpherson (or rather Mrs. James Fraser of Castleleathers), and at the sight of her Strange bowed very coldly, remembering the escape from Fort Augustus, and calling his men disappeared towards Edinburgh.
"Sit ye doon a moment," said Castleleathers, "though it's a dreary enough place for family reunions."
But Rob only stared out to sea where the moon was pouring a broad pathway of silver upon the quivering water.
"Did Muckle John not give ye a message for me?" he asked. "It will be long ere we see him again."
Castleleathers took a keek over his shoulder.
"To be honest, Rob," he said, "I never saw him at all. Maybe he's coming or maybe he is no sae far off as ye think."
"He was the queer yin," remarked Mrs. Fraser, "though he had a way with him, mind ye. That night in Inverness, Rob—that was a scene. There was I dancing like a young yin, and all to a scrap of a tune he was whistling something like this..." and she tried to whistle, but failed most signally.
"No," said Rob, "it was more like this," but he had not the twist of it at all.
"Ye're all out together," cried a voice in the night. "Was it no this?" and the west wind carried the rhythm of the reel into the night.
"Where is he?" whispered Castleleathers, looking about.
"It's no canny," said his wife with a shiver.
"Muckle John!" cried Rob.
The tune stopped, and suddenly as it were in the midst of them with the ghastly thing over their heads creaking and clacking, the voice of Muckle John was singing, and these were the words he sang:
Swing—swing in the hail and snow,Dead banes clinkin' frae dawn to nicht,Creak—creak to the hoodie crowFrom rising sun to grey moonlicht.
A lark soars blithe frae the sands o' Leith,"Life's but a braw claymore," sang he."Death is nought but an empty sheath"Creak, creak, creak, groans the Gibbet Tree.
The waves gang jinkin' ower the shore,A seagull laughs as he skims the sea,But a feckless loon will laugh nae moreWhile he swings to and fro on the Gibbet Tree.
The nicht creeps back o'er the cold grey tide,The wind sighs over the barren lea,Oh wad that the dark could for ever hideThe feckless loon on the Gibbet Tree.