"Aye," he gulped, "but this is no time to quarrel. Let bygones be bygones. I did ye a wrong long since, I'll allow, but surely ye can forgive and forget?"
"No," said Muckle John, "I never forgive nor forget."
"Then what is it you want—is it my life—there is little enough of that to take—or is it money—I have a few guineas?"
"It is none of these. If I wanted your life I would set the red coats on you. But they will need no guidance of mine. I want to know where the gold is to be landed that is coming from France."
"Oho," cried Lovat, "so that's how the wind blows, is it?" and he remained deep in thought for a while.
"Will you do something if I tell ye?" he asked cunningly.
"Maybe and maybe no."
Lovat moistened his dry lips.
"There are sore times coming," he said in his husky voice, and speaking in Gaelic for the first time, "and I am not what I was. There may be folk who will swear black is black instead of white—you will be taking my meaning? Were I to fall into the hands of the Government it might go badly with me. But there are ways...."
"And they?"