At that Muckle John moved like lightning. He did not dash for the tussock of hay; he knew that such an obvious place of refuge would attract them first. He quite softly re-entered the tent through the slit, and, crawling under the bedding on the floor, he watched the scurrying soldiers outside with keen and calculating eyes.
Half a dozen, headed by Campbell, charged the hay and turned it over and over. Then Strange, not satisfied with that, drove his sword into the midst of it, and poked and jabbed with extraordinary determination, at which Muckle John smiled and lay still. He had not to wait long, however, for the inevitable discovery of his hat sent them post-haste towards the heather and the rough country beyond, and saved a closer search nearer home, which was just what Muckle John had feared and planned to prevent.
Away went the soldiers with Strange and the little red-faced officer, and the camp, saving the sentries, was clear.
So the first onward move commenced. With a spring, Muckle John was through the slit, and darting over the intervening space, he reached the mangled tussock of hay and crawled beneath it. A rope bound it loosely together. Slipping between this and the hay, and trusting to luck that his boots were hid, he began to move in inches over the ground.
By the time the first soldiers passed wearily and footsore into camp, too hot and tired for further searching, he had covered twenty yards.
After them came Strange and the officer, deep in talk. They tramped past and all was quiet again. And then, to his profound dismay, two soldiers, late-comers from the pursuit, sank down upon the hay, and prepared to rest themselves.
"Uncommon 'ard this 'ay," said one of them.
"That it be, Silas—but likewise uncommon soft after 'eather," and one of them yawned and loosened his jacket.
"What wilt do with the youngster, think ye?" asked one.
"Shoot 'im at Fort Augustus," replied the other. "Heard Captain say as 'ow we march there to-morrow. Seems cruel t'shoot a mere shaver, Silas."