"Shall I whisper where he lies hid?" he said. "There's an island at the foot of Arkaig, called Moror—am I no right?" and he shook with silent laughter.
At that the floor beneath Rob's feet seemed to dance up and down, and a great despair made him deaf to all that Strange said—deaf to the shutting of the door—to the brooding silence that settled once again upon his solitude.
When he opened his eyes the sun was sinking, and he was alone. The bitterness of the situation stunned him utterly. How could anyone deny that he had turned informer, especially when the report went round that it was to save his life. He thought he had valued his neck; but now he knew there were things infinitely worse than death. What would he not give now to have lured on Muckle John, and so won his freedom by pretending he had the plan?
And as he brooded deeply, out of the twilight, like a bird's note dropping into silence, came the soft music of a chanter. With a cry he started to his feet and listened.
Again it reached him—a thin bar of wistful melody, the sign of Muckle John.
Snatching up his bonnet he waved it out of the narrow window, and at that the whistle sounded for the last time far away, and died on the wind. Muckle John was ready. Hastily Rob took out the file and pistol, and laid them upon the floor. There was little chance that anyone would visit him again that night. He had eight hours before him to file through the bars of his cell, and conceal himself, just before the dawn, upon the cart of hay below. His chains he had already filed nearly through, concealing the marks with mud scraped off the damp floor of his cell.
But in case of a surprise visit he left his chains on, and set upon the rusty bars of the window, scraping and rasping until his fingers began to peel and bleed, and his arms ached with weariness. At midnight one bar was filed through and laid inside the cell. Weak and dizzy with want of food and exercise, he was forced to rest for half an hour, and then, crawling back, he attacked the cross-bar; and two hours later he had cut it away, and the main part of the work was done. It took him only a few minutes to work himself loose of his chains.
Then, uncoiling the rope, he tied one end to the fragment of iron bar left in the window casement, and unwinding it softly he let it run down the rough, grey wall.
All was very quiet and dark. No sound reached him from below. Far away, on the outer guard, he caught the dull tramp of the sentry, marching to and fro in the wintry darkness.
The time was ripe. Slipping his pistol about his waist, Rob wormed his way, legs first, through the open window, and coiling his feet about the rope, he took a grip of it with his hands and began to slide slowly downwards.