Avoiding his eyes the two Highlanders drew apart from their infuriated leader, and spoke together in Gaelic.
"Are you going?" roared Muckle John.
They nodded, and passing him, strode down the pass towards the soldiery.
Even Muckle John was taken by surprise. With a sharp cry he attempted to stop them, but it was too late. They were twenty yards away before he had scrambled along the track.
Then leaning heavily upon the smooth face of the rock, he watched them with wistful eyes, saying no more.
"Farewell!" he cried at last; and fetching out his chanter he began to play the "Battle of the Clans," at which they turned and saluted him, and then, swinging their claymores, rushed upon the soldiers, and slashing right and left, fell amongst a heap of slain.
In the pause that followed Muckle John changed the tune to the "Lament for the Children," which is like a moonlit sea for sadness. All the glen lay silent for a space at his playing; In a kind of superstitious fear the red-coats waited, dreading the black hills and menacing landscape, but dreading most of all the stricken player up above. It was Captain Strange who shook them from their panic.
Very cautiously they began to creep upwards, and at that, Muckle John put away his whistle, and turning for his sword, saw Rob standing beside him, a bare claymore in his hand.
"You here!" he cried. "I thought you had gone. It was dreaming I was, Rob. Run, boy, for the night is close upon us. Ye won't? Well, well—it's a rare spirit ye have, Rob, but it's like to trip you up this night," and he swept the passage with his sword.
"Guard you my legs, Rob, and when I'm tired of standing on one foot, I'll lean against the wall." So in the deepening gloom, without further word they awaited the attack.