"Tuts," she replied. "Now, hark ye, Rob, for there's muckle to grasp. Yon Muckle John came to me last night, and sent me here with the things ye have. He also sent this letter," and she fumbled for a moment in her pocket, and handed over a slip of paper to him.
"Read it by-and-by," she said, "but first listen here. They will no hang ye for a week—that's sure as death, and it's yon old Lovat that they are after. They will search upper Loch Arkaig in a fortnight, but they would do it sooner were they to ken just what you know. Belike, Rob, if ye told them ye would win free, and in the meantime the word could reach Lovat to seek another place."
"No," said Rob, "that I could not do. Suppose he were too ill to escape, or the message strayed?"
"Then, Rob, there is Muckle John, and he has a way, he says, though I canna believe in it mysel'. But the letter from him will show you."
Rob drew the paper out, and read it in silence. It ran:
"DEAR ROB,—When ye hear a whustle such as ye ken, do as I say. File through the bars of your window and your chains should you have any and lower yoursel down into the outer yard where a cart with hay will be lying. When dawn breaks the cart will move out but it will not be searched for reasons that I will not say. Should ye have anything to entrust to me in case of accident give it to Mistress Macpherson, who is our good friend."—M.J.
It was the last sentence that sent the blood into Rob's cheeks.
"Do you know why Muckle John is so anxious regarding my safety?" he asked his aunt.
"No," she replied with a troubled frown, "though I asked him."
"Did he reply?"