From the heather a hundred yards up the glen two men had risen at the first note, and came running towards them—long-haired, ragged gillies, Fraser by their tartan. They stood a little way from Lovat, watching him like dogs ready for the trail. The frost of their night watch stood upon their bonnets and their beards were stiff and glistening. Waving Rob aside Lovat began to speak to them in a low tone, but before he had said more than a dozen words his voice rose to a scream through the influence of some private passion, and he menaced them in Gaelic so that they quailed before his clenched fist. But as suddenly his voice dropped and he caressed them, patting their cheeks and then dismissing them, stood panting beside Rob—all the fire gone—once more just an old sick man.
Very slowly he clambered upon the pony, and so they started and began to pass the cluster of huts near Gortuleg. The frightened people trooped out of their doors to see their chief go by, and a dozen Frasers armed with muskets and swords gathered about him and trudged in silence towards the west.
At the corner of the brae Lovat turned and looked back on Gortuleg. Beneath his bullying, tyrannical, shifty character there was a kind of bedrock of that highly coloured sentiment that is akin to melodrama. He played to the gallery with infinite zest and genuine enjoyment. It was a nice pose to combat the diminishing power of the chieftainship—where force was a dangerous weapon, sentiment was often a two-edged sword.
"Farewell," he said, in his deep voice and with honest tears in his eyes, "for maybe I shall never see you again."
It did not matter that the house was not his, nor an imposing habitation at the best of times. All that mattered was that he was at the turn of the brae, going downward—an exiled chief. Fully conscious that the setting was saga-like the clansmen set up a piteous lamentation, and bowing his great head Lovat motioned them on, and the journey continued. And in this fashion after many weary hours they reached Loch Muilzie in Glenstrathfarar and for the time being considered themselves in safety.
Far away, dimly discernible in that wilderness of heather, two men were running like wolves on the trail—two men with dirks by their sides, and death in their hearts—running tirelessly. On the outskirts of the Fraser country they passed another man who was watching the pass and without a word he joined them—three men running in single file, bending double in open places—heading for Knoidart.
Long after, when the sun was falling, Muckle John pulled in his horse for the third time within an hour and listened intently. From the drenched hillside a curlew was crying amongst the shadows, and from up the hill came the clamour of a muir-fowl.
But no whisper of the danger that lurked unseen amongst the silences—awaiting the night.
And then with troubled eyes he continued his way, taking cover where he could, seeking a place of refuge.