The Clansmen descended a hill, turned sharply to the right toward the river and broke into a quick gallop. Within thirty minutes they entered a forest on the river bank, and down its dim aisles, lit by moonbeams, slowly wound their way to their old rendezvous.
The signal was given to dismount and disrobe the horses. Within a minute the white figures gathered about a newly opened grave.
The men began to whisper excitedly to one another.
“What’s this?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Who’s dead?”
“You’re too many for me!”
“What’s up, Steve Hoyle?” asked one of the raiders.
“It’s beyond me, sonny. The Grand Dragon of the State honours us with his presence to-night and is in command—he will no doubt explain. Have a drink.” He handed the group a flask of whiskey, and passed on.
When the men had assembled beside the shallow grave, the chaplain led in prayer.