"He brought it on himself, Hamish," says he; "but, man, I'm sorry for his wife's sake."
"Out, man, out," I cried at him; "there's nae time for sorrow," and there came the clop-clop of a galloping horse on the frozen road, and Ronny McKinnon flung himself among us.
"The back door, damnation, the back door," he cried, and pushed Dan before him. "Will ye wait till that wasp's bink is buzzin' aboot yer lugs?"
We followed McKinnon through the kitchen and into the yard behind the inn, and a great fear came on me, for the yard was overhung with a bush-covered precipice, and the long icicles glittering, and there was only the track round to the main road open.
"We're trapped, Dan; we're trapped."
"Trapped nane. Follow me, ye gomeril; there's a track up the broo," whispered McKinnon, and swung himself among the lowest of the bushes, and we followed.
"I ken the very branches to put my hand on," says he, "and where every stane is, for many's the night I ran the cutter for the auld wives." We were half-way up before Dan spoke.
"I never kilt a man before," says he in a low whisper.
"Ye did weel for a beginner," says that wild young sea-hawk. "Nobody will be blaming ye for botching the work." And as we struggled up he hissed a fierce sea oath at me, when my clumsier boot dislodged an icicle that tinkled like breaking glass in the yard below us.
"On, man, on," he whispered. "Ye'll need a' your start, for the gang will hunt ye doon like a mad dog."