“I’m the man that Shanty Moir brought in this afternoon,” whispered Reivers.
“I know, I know,” gasped MacGregor weakly. “But men do not call me MacGregor Roy. James MacGregor they call me, unless—unless——”
“Unless they have the ‘Roy’ straight from the lips of your daughter, Hattie.”
For a full minute MacGregor sat stricken speechless.
“Man, man! Speak!” The unfortunate man came wriggling over and laid his hands pleadingly on Reivers. “Don’t play with me. Is my daughter Hattie alive and well?”
“Very much alive,” replied Reivers, “and as well as can be expected of a girl who is worrying her heart out over why her father doesn’t return or send her word.”
“Have they no’ guessed—has no’ my brother Duncan guessed by this time?” gasped MacGregor. “Can not they understand that I must be dead or held captive since I do not return? Speak, man, tell me how ’tis with them!”
Reivers waited until the poor man had become more quiet before replying to him.
“You’d better quiet down a little MacGregor,” he whispered then. “You can’t tell when your friends might be listening, and it wouldn’t do either of us any good if they heard what we’re saying.”
“True,” said the old man more quietly. “I’m acting like an old woman. But for three months I’ve been trapped like this, and my head fairly swims when I hear you speak of Hattie. How come you to know of her?”