"He said that?" said Cameron in a sharp voice. Then turning to Murray he grasped his arm. "Ye hear that?" he cried. "It's Rob right enough, and the Prince with him." He snatched up the letter again. "Gold," he repeated, and back came the frown. "No," he said under his breath, "I'll take no gold. I seem to scent treachery in the word gold. What need has the Prince with such? It's something mair substantial he'll require. Murray," he broke off, "how much have ye upon you?"
"A hundred louis d'or—nae mair," said he. "But tak' it, Archie—only leave me ten for my ain needs."
The coins again changed hands and Cameron again addressed Grant.
"What other news do ye bring?" he asked.
"There is word," Grant replied, "that the soldiers are moving south."
He took to rummaging again in his shirt and drew out a piece of tartan—a tangled, stained fragment about the size of a man's hand.
"One who shall be nameless," said he, "has ordered me to give this to Murray of Broughton, begging him to put it into Lovat's own hands."
"It is a warning," gasped Cameron, "he says they are moving south."
Murray showed no relish for the business.
"I have no wish to speak with Lovat," he replied, "I am the last man from whom he would take such a message."