"Rob," said he at last, "had ye no better take your ways home?"
"Never!" cried he.
Without a word the other turned upon his heel, again, and so in a dour silence they reached the centre of the town.
"Rob," said Muckle John, "you see that house there? That is where the Prince is staying, and there at the door he is, and with him Lord George Murray, a braw soldier but no Irish, and so not above suspicion."
On the door-step stood Prince Charlie talking in a vexed, irritated manner to a very choleric-looking gentleman, who seemed in a bubble of anger, which he could ill control.
"Come ye with me, Rob," said Muckle John, "and keep your eyes open, and your mouth as tight as a gravestone."
As they approached, the Prince let his eyes rest on the massive figure of Muckle John, then nodded absently like a man whose thoughts are far away. Lord George Murray, on the other hand, greeted him with some cordiality, and turning again to the Prince, continued his conversation.
"I can assure your Highness that no aid will come from France," he said, "Fitzjames is captured, and that is not the last of it...."
The Prince gnawed his lip with bitter vexation.
"Your lordship was always most certain in disaster," he said peevishly, "a long face carries a long tale."