But alas, it was only a dream. The bloodhounds were on his track. One morning, just in the grey of dawn, Rosette was making her way close to the cabin in which Robbie lay, when suddenly she was confronted by a small party of yeos. She turned and fled, pursued by a volley of oaths and villainous jests. Worse still, she was followed by one or two of the party, and although she flew like a deer she was quickly overtaken, for her foot having caught in a briar she stumbled and fell.
The yeo picked her up, and then swore out: “By ——, it’s the Frenchwoman, and her lover cannot be far off.”
In the meantime the approach of the yeos to the house had been discovered, and the owner had taken out Grierson to the haggard, and concealed him effectually in a heap of turf which stood by the house. Within a few minutes the yeos came, bringing Rosette along, her face aflame with indignation.
“Search the house,” cried the leader of the band. They did so. There was no one in it. “Come, my man tell us at your peril where the traitor Grierson is?”
“That’s more than I know” replied the owner of the house, to whom the question had been addressed.
“Well this wench can tell us, and shall tell us,” cried one of the most ruffianly of the gang, and he seized Rosette in such a manner as to cause her to scream out.
Suddenly the clump of turf came tumbling about the yard, and with flashing eyes and white face Robert Grierson staggered out and made for the ruffian.
“Unhand her, you coward,” and he struck at his face. Weak as he was the blow was not without effect, and Rosette was free from the polluted grasp.
There was something in the passion of Grierson that seemed to win the sympathy of the yeoman captain, who had been acquainted with Grierson.