"By his mouse-coloured hair and beard, and he told me—told me——"
"What—what?" asked Rob, impatiently; "oh, Paul—Paul—Dugald lies in his grave in Glenlyon."
"It matters not—he told us to beware of Athole!"
"Paul, is not this mockery, and at such a time? Beware of Athole? We have done little else for these twenty years past."
"Above the graves of the dead we get counsel just and true," repeated poor, old, half-witted Paul, ignorant that, sixteen centuries before, Pomponius Mela recorded a similar idea.
The escapes of Rob had been so numerous and so desperate that they became a byeword—a joke in the Highlands, where the people were wont to say,—"You might as well attempt to say MacNab thrice with your mouth shut as attempt to catch Rob Roy;" and believing himself to be singularly favoured by fortune in that matter, he paid but little attention to the warning of Paul till about sunset, when his son Ronald came running in bareheaded and breathless from a cattle-fold to announce that a party of soldiers were rapidly approaching the house!
The natural grief which Rob was enduring for the death of his mother turned into exasperation. He now kept fewer men about him than had been his wont in other times, and it chanced that, though some hundreds would muster for the funeral on the morrow, there were not ten in the house at this desperate crisis!
He buckled on his sword, thrust his loaded pistols in his belt, threw his target on his arm, kissed Helen and the babe Robin at her breast, and was rushing from the house to seek shelter on the hills, when the Duke of Athole, with two hundred and fifty of his tenantry, all mounted and armed with sword, pistol, and musketoon, drew up before the door.
Keeping his hand on his sword, Rob saluted the duke, saying, with that suave irony which a Highlander can so well assume,—
"I am obliged to your grace for coming unasked with such a goodly company to attend my mother's funeral. Glenfalloch and Breadalbane will alike deem it an honour which neither they nor I expected."