Rob shook his head.
"Who but John Maclaren himself, new come from giving the red-coats the go-bye on the road to Carlisle. He says James is up to his pranks, and that the clan are scared to death at the very sight of you in the heart of their country. It is away we must go, Rob," and summoning his men they prepared to set out, leaving their camp fires burning in case their flight was suspected. Over the cleft in the hills they went, and crossing the top of Beinn-an-Shithein, came down on Strathyre and Castle Murdoch.
"There is a strange man lives there," said the gipsy to Rob, "it's like enough he will send us about our business should we stop."
"Who are ye?" snarled a voice at that moment from the wall of the place, "ye canna bide hereabouts."
The moon had risen and under its clear rays Rob looked up and saw a white-haired man watching them from the rampart.
"What kind of night skulking is this?" he cried.
"I am Gloom," replied the gipsy.
"And who is that with you, he is none of your people."
"He is a friend, Murdoch."
"Bring him here—this is an ill time for friends," and he disappeared.