Then drawing himself clear of the hay, he waited, crouching on his hands and knees. At last with a spring, he cleared the danger-spot, and was flat with the heather when the sentries turned again.
The next five seconds saw him thirty yards away, the next another forty, and then he fell to running with bent back—a shadow among shadows, until he was gathered into the darkness and was seen no more.
It was on the evening of the next day that Muckle John, travelling all night and resting by day, reached Inverness, and, muffling up his face, trod through the silent town and knocked at the door of Miss Macpherson. Inside all was utterly quiet, and for a moment he feared that she had gone.
But very slowly the door opened, and a pair of keen eyes looked into his face, while a nose like an eagle's beak was thrust forward as though on the point of striking.
"Wha's there?" she cried.
"Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John; "let me in, for I am spent, and this is no the place to exchange pleasantries..."
"Pleasantries indeed," she snorted. "Nothing was farther frae my mind," but she let him in for all that, and bolted the door.
Then, raising the rush-light, she stared into his face.
"Oh!" she cried, "and I thought so. Good evening, Mr. Muckle John, though no sae muckle in spirit as when last we met."
"No, madam—ye say true," he replied frowning at the fire-light.