"It's not as if 'e was a Christian, belike, but only an 'Ighlander," replied Silas.
"That be so," answered the other, apparently reassured.
To Muckle John the information was of interest. But for the moment he was more anxious about the future.
Fortunately, the short afternoon was closing in, and a cold spring wind came blowing off the snow-topped hills. It set the soldiers shivering and stumbling camp wards. It also set Muckle John free and travelling slowly towards the rough land at the foot of the slope.
And then he thrust his head through the hay, like a tortoise out of its shell, and looked about him.
To his right stood a sentry, apparently dozing, To his left, another sentry, but marching to and fro to keep warm. Very patiently Muckle John waited for several things to happen. It was inevitable that darkness would fall soon, and that meant safety. It was also very probable that the increasing cold would send both sentries tramping up and down, and in that lay a chance to escape into the heather unseen.
But against these two probabilities was the stern fact that horses need fodder, and that every minute brought the search for the tussock of hay nearer.
Had Muckle John been the kind of man who, having exercised a maximum of caution, takes a minimum of risk through a very proper spirit, he would have made a run for it, and dodging the sentries' bullets, trusted to the twilight to cover his flight.
But Muckle John had a certain pride in these episodes. He liked to complete a piece of work like this—to leave at his own good pleasure; above all, not to give his enemies the empty satisfaction of knowing just how he had managed it. At that moment the sentry who dozed dropped his musket, and, hastily picking it up, tramped heavily up and down like his companion. There was just a space of five seconds exactly when both their heads were turned away from him.
Five times Muckle John tested it, leaving half a second for accidents and the half-turns at the corners.