The Macgregors with a sprinkling of Maclarens were handling a curious smooth stone with holes for a finger and a thumb, and competing with one another in lifting it upon a small rock that stood in close proximity.
A tall dark sombre-looking man leaning upon a rude crutch and with a pale harassed face was regarding the scene from a little distance. He was dressed in riding clothes and with a greatcoat buttoned up closely as though he were ill. Rob was on the point of asking who he was when he became aware of the other's close scrutiny.
There was something dangerously interested in the manner he stared—taking him in with his dark cunning eyes, measuring his height in his mind—the set of his face, conjuring up every detail circumspectly.
"Gloom," said Rob in a whisper, "there's a man up on the brae has a notion who I am."
Very casually the gipsy turned about.
"Misfortune take it," he murmured, "but it is James More, son of Rob Roy, new come from Culloden. He was wounded, ye mind."
Presently without a word or any sign James Macgregor moved painfully away and entered Inverlochlarig.
"Come, Rob," said Gloom, "I would not trust that man a foot. He is up to mischief, and it's like enough we were better over Glenbucket than here."
Evening drew on, but there was no sign of trouble. At the rising of the moon, however, a tall gaunt woman with a plaid over her head asked for a word with the gipsy. They went apart together and conferred in low tones. And then as silently as she had come the woman vanished into the shadows.
"Rob," said Gloom, "there's danger threatening—when was there not in this wild country? Who do you think that was?"