Again they started laboriously on, Muckle John leaning upon Rob's shoulder and supporting himself with a rough crutch hewn from a tree upon the hill-side. Just over the knoll they saw the grey stones of the old stronghold Muckle John had spoken of, a poor enough refuge to all appearances, and certainly one not likely to be overlooked by the soldiers.
Inside the walls the grass was long and rank and in the midst of the grass stood a slab of granite upon four other slabs, making a square memorial very moss-covered and decayed, marking the burial-place of the Macrae.
Opposite it in the wall was a great open chimney-stack. To this Muckle John limped, and staring upwards beckoned to Rob.
"See here," he said, "there is about three feet up a place in the wall large enough for a small man to lie hid. You cannot see it for a very good reason, but it's a bonny spot to hide. Come, Rob, upon my shoulders—there's not a moment to lose."
"But what of you?" asked Rob.
"Up," said Muckle John, "I see them on the brow of the hill."
"No," said Rob, "I will not go until..."
But he had time for no more for Muckle John had him by the throat and was squeezing the very life out of him.
"Dinna clash words with me—you Fraser loon," he snarled, "up ye go or I'll break your neck."
After that Rob was only too ready to get out of reach of those terrible arms.