With a sharp crack it broke away—a good two feet. Underneath the horse snorted with sudden fear; it seemed to be only a few inches beneath his hand. Lying full length, he stretched down into the pitch darkness and touched its ear, soothing it with a whisper.
The way lay clear.
Then, regaining his feet, he stole back to the other end of the place and looked down upon the men below. It was a curious, somewhat pathetic sight that met his eyes. Murray was upon his feet and bidding them good night. He looked as though he knew in his heart what deed they intended, and was on the point of appealing to their chivalry (if they had any), and yet too proud to do so. In the end he only bowed and, taking a rushlight from the innkeeper, climbed slowly up the stairway and lifted the trap-door.
Now it was evident to Rob that if Murray, unnerved by illness and fatigue came upon him suddenly, he might hesitate or utter a cry, and for this reason he hid himself behind the sack until he was in the room and the trap-door shut, when he whispered, "Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray," as gently as he could.
There was a sharp sound like a gasp, and Murray replied in the same tone, "Who is it?"
With his finger on his lips, Rob appeared before him.
"Quick!" he whispered, "lift the sack with me and put it upon the trap-door. It will serve for a few minutes. They are cut-throats down there."
For an instant Murray fumbled with his sword and then, controlling himself, he aided Rob, though his strength was not of much value at such a time.
Fortunately for them, the four men below were hard at it together, whispering in Gaelic, and evidently in high feather over the business ahead, so that they did not hear the moving of the sack. That accomplished, Rob drew Murray to the far corner.
"Your horse is below," he said; "drop down and soothe him while I wait in case they come. Give me your sword. Lead him out upon the road and I'll join you there."