"Dear me, Miss Macpherson, ye say so?"
"That I do, my man, and what's more he's in this very room."
With a pathetic simulation of surprise Castleleathers made as though to look over his shoulder.
"It's yersel'," said Miss Macpherson coldly.
He tried to meet her stony stare, but failed.
"When ye mention it," he began like a man struggling to recall a distant event, "when ye mention it, maybe I did say I was second cousin to Rob who lived with his aunt near by—I'm no denying anything mind ye, I merely say maybe I did in the course of conversation, a pleasantry madam, a bit of gossip..."
"It's like to be a dear bit of gossip for Rob," she retorted, "and that no so far away."
"Tuts! you take too serious a view. It will all blow over—all blow over. There has been trouble before, I mind the '15, it was just the same, and before a few months had passed all the folk were going about their ways just the same and keeping their claymores oiled for the next time. Rob is a lad of spirit, Miss Macpherson, and they will not take him."
But she was not listening to him. She was revolving in the depths of her mind some kind of plan, any sort of crazy plan that would save Rob. The day when he could have surrendered and escaped with a few months' imprisonment was past; he was now a notorious rebel still in arms, and associated with desperate leaders amongst the rebel army. There was no hope of shielding him until better days. It must be escape across the sea—or a pardon. But the idea of a pardon was, of course, absurd.
"What can we do?" she said in a kind of restrained despair.