With a blinding shock he realized that it was a bayonet—that they were come—that in secrecy and silent as ghosts the place was full of soldiers, had been perhaps for hours. Sleep was instantly banished and fear set him once more alert. His only hope lay in utter silence. Again the bayonet hovered like a snake within a few inches of his knees. He knew the man was staring upwards, vaguely suspicious, despite the apparent smooth emptiness of the chimney. He was not satisfied. The bayonet worked its way round the place again. Another piece chipped off, this time a larger piece. Why, Rob wondered, with the sweat upon his brow, did the man not try the other side? It was just as likely there. Did he really know? Was this a little sport to while away the time? It was almost more than he could bear.
Very carefully the bayonet worked its blind course round again, and this time it carried about an eighth of an inch off his brogue. Next time it would be his bare flesh. Suddenly the bayonet vanished. The man apparently tired of it, or satisfied that there was no hidden place in the chimney, drew his musket down and all was quiet again.
Rob was half-minded to ease his aching limbs when a peculiar sweet smell came drifting past him. There was some one smoking in the place below, and what was more very close to the chimney to send the fragrance up the shaft of it. Rob considered the matter very carefully. It seemed possible that the soldier was alone, and quite unconscious of his presence. A man did not smoke in silence unless he was solitary, and smoking was an idle recreation not associated with premeditated murder. Perhaps the fellow was lost or tired. Perhaps (most comforting thought of all) he would fall asleep. He wondered just how he was sitting, and whether he was leaning against the hearthstone with his eyes half-closed and the top of his head not so far below him.
With the utmost caution Rob leaned forward and peeped over.
It was just as he had pictured it. In the open fire-place a soldier was huddled at his ease, his hat upon the ground, his back against the slab of blackened stone, the pipe stuck at an angle in his mouth and his lank hair dishevelled and on end. He was dozing. Even as Rob watched him the pipe in his mouth slid upon his coat, where it lay on its side with a thin curl of smoke twining from the bowl.
Rob considered the situation. He was convinced that the man was alone, but there was the likelihood that he had been dispatched there to await the search-party. The state of that district was hardly one to encourage solitary English soldiers to sleep at their good pleasure. The ghastly pine-tree within a mile or two of this very spot was a grim enough reminder of that.
Rob was strongly inclined to fall upon him while he slept, and trust to knocking him senseless or dirking him as he struggled in the narrow fire-place. Those were not gentle times. Dirking seemed a very natural action to Rob. He looked on the soldier below him as a sworn foe beyond the claims of pity—an invader and murderer of his people. Under no possible circumstances could Rob have regarded an Englishman with sympathy or admiration since for centuries he had been looked upon as a natural enemy, and now a very bitter one indeed.
But if he failed to kill the man, then the game was up, and even if he did succeed in his design they were not much better off, Muckle John could not reach a place of safety, and another slaughtered Englishman would only point to their near presence in the neighbourhood and redouble the soldiers' previous energies.
And then as though to settle the matter once and for all, a bugle sounded near at hand, the soldier awoke and scrambled to his feet, there was a noise of marching on the moor outside and the splashing of a horse passing through the burn. Rob heard an order given and the grounding of arms. He listened to the roll-call being read and the words of dismissal.
The short afternoon was closing in, and to his horror he realized that they were camping for the night.