That Strange would attack on his wounded side so as to ensure a speedy dispatch, was more than probable. It was not the first time that Muckle John had fought in the black darkness. A moment, and a whistle of steel passed close to his ear, and lunging upwards with a twist of the wrist, he felt the blade win home, and a dreadful cry broke the stillness.
Slowly the moon passed out of the clouds, and streamed its feeble light upon the open space between the rocks.
On the smooth surface Strange lay with one arm outstretched and the other clutching his breast.
"He fought hard," said Muckle John, staggering to his feet. "I doubt I've killed him."
The wounded man began to cough, and then, without a spoken word, turned a little away from them, and with a shudder lay utterly still.
For a moment they stood above him, then Muckle John turned to Rob.
"Come," said he, "for we must be far from here before the dawn."
And so they passed out of that terrible place, with all its silent forms on the hill-side and that one lonely figure huddled in the moonlight, Muckle John leaning upon Rob's shoulder, limping towards the west.