Some minutes passed, and from below came the faint shuffling of footsteps. With a groan Rob struggled up and peered over. A dreadful sight faced him. About twenty yards beneath, where one man was forced to climb upon the other's shoulders, the foothold had failed, and after a momentary, fluttering grasp at the thin grass that grew in patches here and there, a mournful cry went up, and the two bodies slid and tumbled and sped out of sight.
"They're killed!" cried Rob.
Muckle John rose stiffly to his feet.
"I said there were but two who knew the way," he replied, "and one is mysel'," and he stretched himself and began to walk up the slope of the hill.
"Come, Rob," said he, over his shoulder, "they'll be after us now, but we have two hours' start, which, saving the English, should prove sufficient."
Then quite suddenly he stopped in his tracks, and stared with a frown upon the glen below. Drawing Rob forward, he pointed downwards, saying no word.
And Rob said nothing either; there was nothing to say.
All along the valley and up into the hills beyond were scattered tiny white tents, and little figures in red coats moved hither and thither like ants in an open space amongst the heather, while the sun shone and glinted on white flickers of steel.