"Tell me," said she, "before we go farther—what of Rob, the obstinate, dour body?"
Muckle John shifted his eyes.
"Maybe he's no been as fortunate as we could have wished," he said, slowly shaking his head.
"Dinna clash words wi' me!" she screamed. "Oot with it, ye Hieland cateran—what o' Rob—where is he—is he in prison?"
"No, no," cried Muckle John, "though maybe no so far off, either."
The hawk eyes were now fixed fiercely on him.
"What did ye come here for?" she cried. "What has kept your feet hammering the road for hours past? Was it just for the pleasure o' a crack wi' me? Oh, no, my man, there's a bonny tale behind your face," and she sat herself down, her chin resting on her hand.
With a shrug Muckle John told of the flight from Culloden (saying nothing of his part that day), and of the meeting on the shore of Arkaig, and the taking of Rob.
"He is meddling in business that I canna control," he said finally, "and so he's bound for Fort Augustus, and out of it he must come or my name's no Muckle John."
"Which is probably true," sniffed Miss Macpherson, "and no sae comforting as maybe ye intended."