The room in which he sat was very small and compact, the shutters drawn, and the seat in which he dozed one he had procured from the wreckage of a chief's house—a massive cushioned chair—with a back so high that it took a big man to see who entered the room.
He had dined as well as Highland rations would permit, and, like all Germans, he loved his food. He also relished the hour following his dinner. He had a kind of reverence for that sacred time.
To lounge before the fire on that dreary night of cold rain and mist, a night fit only for Highland cattle and suchlike, had its compensations. The last few months had brought their burden of anxiety and fatigue. The eve of Culloden had been enough to try any man's nerve. Had he lost—had he been taken or killed—there is little question that the English Crown would have changed hands. Perhaps he had been over hard on the barbarous people who had rebelled, but he was frightened. Looking back on it now, he saw that he had lost his head for a time. And now the country was subdued. He could return and listen to the things that London was waiting to say. There would be flags and banquets and honours. England was at his feet. Labour accomplished successfully has, indeed, its consolations.
He stirred the fire and listened to the crackle of the wood. It was a fine, brisk, homely noise on such a wretched night of driving rain and sleet. It was good to feel the rare glow of it on one's feet and knees. He wondered why it seemed so much better on a night of storm. He hunted in his mind for a reason. Suddenly he chuckled. He remembered the Young Pretender, sheltering for all he knew under a ledge of dripping rock, or in a byre for cattle. Bad weather cut two ways. It had its comforts for the victor—it lashed the fugitive most piteously.
He laughed outright at the notion. Where was he now, that silly young man? Yet not so young—his own age in solemn truth. Then all the more credit to himself. Where was he now, but on some open moor like a curlew in the night or a stag watching the way he had run.
His eyes shut and suddenly a snore rang through the firelit room.
At the same moment a tall and heavily plaided figure passed noiselessly across the space that divided the door from the table and stood there for a moment as though undecided in his mind what course to take. In the doorway there hung a heavy curtain. Behind this there was another form. One could see that by the curve of it inside the room.
On the table there lay a paper—a despatch apparently, and this the man behind the chair looked at idly with his thoughts upon the silent figure sunk in slumber.
But as he read he frowned, and then, very softly he gathered up the paper and returned to the doorway where his companion appeared, and together they passed out of sight.
In an adjoining room they paused, and together bent over the dispatch. It was dated two days since, from Loch Carron, and signed by Captain Strange. It stated that Neil Mackenzie had encountered Muckle John and Rob Fraser in the inn of Loch Carron, and in an attempt to capture them had suffered both in body and reputation, and that unless he was permitted to take vengeance upon them he and his following would cease to interest themselves in the business of the Government further. That Neil Mackenzie, himself, was even now journeying to Fort Augustus to explain the matter, and that he advised that it might reflect less on the Government if the affair was left in Highland hands. The remainder of the dispatch dealt with the state of the district, the capture of Lord Lovat, and concluded with the words: "There are reasons why it would be expedient if neither Muckle John or Rob Fraser stood their trial, but were reduced to silence by some other course, in fact if your Highness could see your way to disarming their suspicions and the suspicions of the Jacobites in some way, it would leave the road clear for Mackenzie."