"Hi, there, ye scoondrels!" shouted Donalblane. "Hands off, or I'll shoot ye!"
As the words left his lips, one of the highwaymen got in so brutal a blow that his victim fell limply to the ground; but the next instant the report of the pistol rang out, and its bullet buried itself in the ruffian's shoulder.
Completely taken by surprise—for neither of them had been aware of the boy's swift approach—the rascals were so panic-stricken that they took to their heels and disappeared around the corner, leaving Donalblane with the seemingly lifeless form.
"The puir man, they've killed him, nae doot," he murmured sadly, as he bent over the prostrate figure to feel if there were any signs of life left.
He was thus engaged when a door near by opened, and out sprang a couple of men, who rushed upon him and grasped him roughly, exclaiming—
"Ah—ah! now we've caught you red-handed! You'll swing high for this, you villain!"
"Hoot, man, ye're quite wrong!" retorted Donalblane hotly. "I'm no' the villain. I ran to help this man. 'Twas the robbers that killed him."
But they refused to believe him, and others coming up, the poor boy was like to have been roughly handled, when a grey-haired man, who spoke with authority, commanded that he be brought to his house for examination. When this had been done, and the men realised what a mere lad he was, and what a frank, honest countenance he possessed, the tide of feeling at once began to turn.
"I am greatly disposed to believe the boy," said the elderly man after he had heard Donalblane's story. "But we must keep him in ward until we can find this Mr. Paterson of whom he speaks."
So Donalblane was securely locked up until the morning, when he not only had the joy of being vouched for by Mr. Paterson, and honourably released, but the relief of learning that the highwaymen's victim had been only stunned, not killed, and would soon recover from his injuries.