"Dance—dance on the feet of fire!" sang Muckle John, "Mackenzies tripping it brawly."
Suddenly from the room where the smoke was dense and black a voice called on him to hear them. It was Neil himself.
"What do you want with us?" he cried.
Muckle John stared into the mirk.
"Throw out your arms," said he, "and you, Neil Mackenzie, come out first and stand on one side."
There was an instant clatter of dirks and one broadsword.
"Rob," cried Muckle John, "take this man away there and pistol him if he shows mischief, though I sliced his arm prettily enough."
Then turning back, Muckle John collected the arms together and called on the Mackenzies to come out. This they did readily enough, gasping and coughing in the glare of the fire, and rubbing the smart of it from their aching eyes.
Seeing that they meditated no attack Muckle John threw their dirks into the blazing house, and then marched up to them.
"I am taking your chief," he said, "as a safeguard. If I am followed I will claymore him as surely as my name is Muckle John."