“We should be near the river by this time, Glendinning,” said the leader of the party, reining in and addressing the swarthy trooper.
“Ay, sir, the Cluden rins jist ayont the turn o’ the road there,” replied the man. “Ye’ll hear the roar o’ the fa’ in a meenit or twa.”
Even as he spoke the dull growl of a cataract was heard, and, a few minutes later, the party came upon the ford of the river.
It was situated not many yards below the picturesque waterfall, which is now spanned by the Routen Bridge, but which, at that time, was unbridged—at all events, if a bridge had previously existed, it had fallen in or been carried away—and the wild gorge was impassable.
The sound of the fall alone told of its vicinity, for a dense mass of foliage hid it completely from the troopers’ view until they had surmounted the steep bank on the other side of the stream.
“Are you well acquainted with this man Black?” asked the leader of the party as they emerged from the thick belt of trees and shrubs by which the Cluden was shaded, and continued their journey on the more open ground beyond.
“I ken him weel, sir,” answered the trooper. “Andrew Black was an auld freend o’ mine, an’ a big, stoot, angry man he is—kindly disposed, nae doot, when ye let him alane, but a perfe’t deevil incarnate when he’s roosed. He did me an ill turn ance that I’ve no paid him off for yet.”
“I suppose, then,” said the officer, “that your guiding us so willingly to his cottage is in part payment of this unsettled debt?”
“Maybe it is,” replied the trooper grimly.
“They say,” continued the other, “that there is some mystery about the man; that somehow nobody can catch him. Like an eel he has slipped through our fellows’ fingers and disappeared more than once, when they thought they had him quite safe. It is said that on one occasion he managed even to give the slip to Claverhouse himself, which, you know, is not easy.”