Apparently satisfied by the fear he had put upon them, the officer pointed to a horse wandering aimlessly about the moor, his reins about his knees.
"Fetch that horse," said he; "my beast was shot from under me an hour since."
Two of the men darted off, only too glad to win his favour, and all the time the officer stood with his back to Rob—a great, square figure, with a broad tear across the middle of his doublet and the long hair showing beneath his peruke. The soldiers caught the horse without difficulty, and returned with it. It was a dragoon charger, a great grey, raking beast, strong and sound.
Taking the reins in his hands, the officer turned again to the men.
"Mayhap you cannot guess whom you so nearly shot," said he darkly.
They shook their heads in an awed silence.
"Then ask in Inverness," he replied, and vaulted into the saddle.
"Now," he went on, "hand that boy up here. He's no prisoner for such as you."
In a moment, two of the soldiers caught up Rob and placed him in front of the saddle, so that he sat upon the horse's withers.
Then gathering up the reins they walked slowly away, leaving the soldiers at the salute.