Backwards and forwards tramped the Duke of Cumberland, his thoughts deep again upon his departure for London and the brave times ahead. Forgotten was all the hardship of the last few months—the poor fare and dreary weather. He was like a man saying a glad farewell to a desolate country of savages.
"It is but half done," whispered Castleleathers to Miss Macpherson when they stood once more upon the heather, "he has forgotten Rob and is like a man eaten up with longing for the south. I've seen such before. There is still Mackenzie. He may be upon us any minute, and what is it to be, the sword or a dunt upon the head."
"A Mackenzie," remarked Miss Macpherson, like to overflow with joy at the pardon, "is neither here nor there, but what of the swarm? You may kill one bee, but dinna forget the hive."
"True," said Castleleathers, "which way will he come?"
"He will come by this very road—I doubt but we'll meet him any minute."
It was long before they heard the sound of a horse thudding up the glen, and very soon the squelch of its feet in the sodden ground. Instantly they crouched by the way, and then as the horseman drew level with them they raised their heads and took him in at a glance. He was a very heavily built man, muffled up in a riding cloak and with a bonnet upon his head.
"A Mackenzie if ever there was one," whispered Castleleathers, and starting up came upon him from the slope of the hill and hauled him off his beast so that he uttered one startled cry and sprawled in the heather with his legs in the air. In the same grim silence, Castleleathers was upon his chest and with a dirk at his throat.
"Is it to be the quick passage," he whispered in Gaelic, "or do you swear to do what is said?"
There was a long silence.
Mackenzie upon his back and helpless as a child was trying to see the tartan of the man above him.