"I can that," said Rob with some indignation for fear he should be sent back into the rain, and with a foolish notion that the man might be of assistance he drew out a dozen silver coins and clinked them in his open hand.
In the blue smoke of the place the man paused. He stood perfectly still with his ghastly squint accentuated. Then putting some meat into the pot he set the lid on, and going to the door spoke to some one outside. This he did so casually that Rob suspected nothing, but sat dozing before the warm glow, utterly spent and stupid with fatigue.
It must have been about eight of the clock that he finished his supper, and asked to be shown to a place to sleep. This the innkeeper did very readily, lighting him up the narrow stairway into the loft and pointing to a heap of dry heather in a corner. Out in the night the rain was falling dismally and below him Rob could hear the warm and comfortable breathing of the cows. Yet, tired though he was, a curious dread of falling asleep came on him. There was something about the place that set his nerves on edge. Was it the eerie silence of it—lost amongst the lonely elbow of the loch? But that was nothing new to him. Was it the strange catlike movements of the man with the squint? But he was probably a decent enough creature unused to strangers. Or was there danger lurking in the place, memories of dreadful things done there in the black darkness? His hand instinctively sought the dirk at his side.
It was gone!
In an instant he was upon his feet. Whether the man below had stolen it or not he dare not take the risk of staying in that lonely place unarmed. He must make his way into the night and trust to fortune that he would evade pursuit should there be any.
Very softly he felt his way about, hunting for a window or trapdoor. But there was no way of escape. Under the door leading to the stairway shone a rim of light thrown up by the peat fire below, and in one place where the wood had been eaten by mice there was a round hole large enough to command the room beneath. He lay at his length and peered down.
To his horror there were four men gathered about the fire—the innkeeper and three ragged, crouching figures, with cruelty and murder written all over their faces. They were dressed in a tartan so filthy and stained with rain and mud that Rob was ignorant of their clan. They were shaggy as cattle beasts, dirty, smoke-blackened fellows, below the average size, active as wild cats, and chattering in whispers like a crew of unwashed monkeys. Even in the remnants of the Chevalier's army Rob had not encountered such as these. Only in Lochaber and Rannoch could such scourings of the clans be found until one met the red Macgregors which Providence forfend.
The innkeeper had his back turned to the stairway, but by the motion of his hands Rob read what he said like an open page. He was telling them of the silver that he, in his rashness, had exposed.
In the red firelight Rob could see their eyes gleam beneath their matted hair. With hypnotized gaze he watched a man unsheath his dirk and make a gesture significant enough, and with a gurgle in the throat requiring no explanation. So that was to be the end of it all—a secret murder by a band of lawless caterans ready to prey upon every stranger luckless enough to beg a night's lodging. He would never see Muckle John again. It made him wonder what he would have done to save his life. Muckle John always had a way.