“Not quite,” replied Allan, laughing. “We are waiting for you to recover, and—”
“Well, sure enough,” cried Rory, “I have recovered.”
He jumped up as he spoke, kicked out his legs, and stretched out his arms.
“No; never a broken bone,” he said.
Now it had been arranged between Allan and McBain that Rory should ride in the cart, while they and Ralph should walk.
But Rory was aghast at such a proposal.
“What,” he cried; “is it a procession you’d make of me? Would you put me on straw in the bottom of a cart, like an old wife coming from a fair?”
“But,” persisted Allan, “you must be weak from the loss of blood.”
“Loss of blood,” laughed Rory, “don’t be chaffing a poor boy. If you’d seen the blood I lost at the last election, and all in the cause of peace and honour, too! No, indeed; I’ll walk.”
The storm was at its very worst when they once more emerged from the pine-wood, but every now and then they could see the light glimmering from one of the castle turrets, to guide them through the darkness. They sent the dogs on before to give notice of their approach; then Peter tuned up, and high above the roaring of the snow rose the scream of the great Highland bagpipe.