"Tuts, Broughton," said Cameron impatiently, "at a time like this private misunderstandings are out of the question—ye may save him from the scaffold."
"I would," retorted Murray sourly, "I could bring him to it. But give me the rubbish, I'll see he receives it, though it's poor thanks I'll get."
"You misjudge him, man—he's dour but he's old. This man here has brought it from the Prince belike, who else?" he swung round on the messenger of Muckle John, "you are a Jacobite I take it?" he asked.
The man shook his head.
"I am a Jacobite where my ain race are concerned," he replied, at which Cameron regarded him gravely, and seemed somewhat suspicious and uncertain what to make of him.
Then turning to Murray he drew him outside the place, and they lay about a dozen paces distant amongst the heather.
"Ye ken what this means, Murray?" he said. "There's some one must warn Lovat. It's the Prince has sent word—leastways, ye can tell Lovat so, it will hearten the old man. Should he be taken the Highlands will lose heart. Get him carried by night Badenoch way. Could he win to Cluny's cage he would be as snug as a rat in a hole—and no sic a bad simile, eh?"
"I'll go," said Murray, staring with tired eyes across the glen.
"I'm no taken with this fellow here," went on Cameron, looking over his shoulder, "and yet what more can I want? He carries the daft words I gave to Rob just to impress him, and send him like a hare out of Arkaig—he warns us for Lovat. Oh, John, what can ye mak' o' it?"
For a long time the other continued to stare into empty space. Then turning his head slowly he let his tragic eyes rest on Cameron.