Inside the taproom there was a solitary occupant. He had evidently never stirred for the tumult outside, for his legs were upon the mantel-shelf, and his head was sunk upon his chest. All Rob could see was a very broad back and a great red neck. He took him to be an exceedingly powerful individual, and one more used to the saddle or the hills than taverns.
"Have they passed?" growled the man at the fire, in a deep contemptuous voice.
"They have," replied Castleleathers, shutting the door, "and Frasers amongst them."
"Like enough, and the Master but a boy, James, fresh from college. His father has muckle to answer for."
"I ken fine, but who knows how this will end? I'd no break my heart if old Sim had his neck thrawn...."
The man at the fire brought down his feet with a bang and swerved about on his chair. To Rob there was something strangely familiar about him.
"Leave your bad debts to me," he said, "I have a bone to pick with Lovat, and..." then seeing Rob, his eyes narrowed and he fell into a sudden silence.
"Whist!" said Castleleathers, "it's only Rob."
But the other said nothing further, only frowning at them both, and then of a sudden he uttered a low whistle, staring over their shoulders.
Now the window was some four feet above the ground—one single pane—and peering through it was Ephraim Macaulay, the school-master. For a single instant Rob saw him, then with a bound the stranger was at the door. He stood gazing up and down the street for a moment, then returned.