Half a dozen dropped and still they came on, and three more of the little band of defenders fell under the storm of bullets.
"Claymores!" cried Muckle John suddenly, and unsheathing his great blade, he flung down his musket and charged upon the foremost of the advancing soldiers.
Rushing fresh and swiftly, with the slope to aid them, they drove the enemy back in confusion, hewing them down like corn under the scythe. But two more men were lost and the holding of the pass was nearing its end.
Last of all to retrace his footsteps into the narrow pathway was Muckle John, and even as Rob turned to speak to him a shot rang out and a bullet lodged in his ankle-bone.
"It's all over now, Rob," he said, looking at the wound. "I couldn't cover a hundred yards like this. Go, laddie, and you, Grant, and you, Macpherson—away with you. I can hold the place for a time." With the help of the man Macpherson he bound a piece of his shirt tightly about his ankle, and rested upon his other leg.
All was very quiet outside. Evidently the enemy were gaining breath for the next and final assault.
"Away with you," said Muckle John.
But the two men would not leave him. They stood with Rob, awaiting his fury—and they had not to wait long.
"Grant," he screamed, "what is this? Are you not sworn to obey me? And you, Macpherson? Oh, that I should be flouted to my very face! Begone, or I will kill you with my own sword!"
They were now in full view of the soldiers, but no shot fell. Possibly the sight of a wrangle at such a time was too amazing to be missed.