Suddenly from the heather at their very feet a man leapt up—a squat, red-headed fellow with a naked dirk in his hand. Something in Macaulay's dim face seemed to have aroused his suspicions.
"Who are you?" he cried in Gaelic.
"Answer him," growled Muckle John in Macaulay's ear, but before he could say a word, the Highlander had scanned Rob's face, and with a shrill warning scream he leaped backward into the heather. It was his last mortal word. With a whistle of flying steel Muckle John whipped his claymore free, and lunging as it swung from the scabbard, drove the blade in to the hilt.
With a terrible cry the man slithered backwards and coughed, and Rob turned sick at the manner in which he writhed in the heather. Through the mist half a dozen forms came running in their direction. There was not a moment to lose. Hastily disengaging his sword, Muckle John flung his great-coat about the head of the schoolmaster, and hurling him down the hillside dragged Rob to his knees with a hand upon his mouth.
The clatter of Macaulay's flying form and his muffled cries drew the newcomers past the place where they lay, and then springing to his hands and feet Muckle John made off in the opposite direction into the heart of the swirling mist. There was a brief silence and then far away, came a shrill yell taken up again and again until every crag seemed alive with voices, and the faint glow of the rising sun made their escape seem impossible.
"They've found him," cried Muckle John, mounting the hillside at a great pace with Rob at his heels, "so it's save your breath and follow me."
There was little cover on that part of the hill, and it was evident from the frenzied shouts rising from below, that their pursuers had seen them crossing an open space.
"Quicker, Rob!" cried Muckle John, darting away like a hare, his head bent below his shoulders as he ran.
At last, when they had reached a mass of crags and loose stones, he dropped behind the first, dodging back along the upper part of the slope, while Rob scrambled behind him. They halted for a moment, about five hundred yards higher than the way they had passed a few minutes before, and Muckle John peeped round a boulder and scanned the misty slope beneath.
"Look," said he at last. Far below, by stretching his head forward, Rob saw many forms moving like dots amongst the heather. Foremost of all came Ephraim Macaulay, waving them on; then, in a rude half-moon, swept some thirty ragged Highlanders, shock-headed, bearded, fierce looking caterans, racing like dogs upon the trail.