"Not yet, you Scotch loon!" said Boyd gently. "I'll live to pepper your kilted tatterdemalions so they'll beg for the mercies of Glencoe!"
After that, for a long while only stragglers came limping by—lank, bloody, starved creatures, who never even turned their sick eyes on the people they passed among.
Then, after nearly half an hour, a full battalion of Johnson's Greens forded the river, and behind them came Butler's Rangers.
Old John Butler, squatting his saddle like a weather-beaten toad, rode by with scarcely a glance at the prisoners; and Greens and Rangers passed on through the village and out of sight to the northwest.
I had thought the defile was ended, when, looking back, I saw some Indians crossing the ford, carrying over a white officer. At first I supposed he was wounded, but soon saw that he had not desired to wet his boots.
What had become of his horse I could only guess, for he wore spurs and sword, and the sombre uniform of the Rangers.
Then, as he came up I saw that he was Walter Butler.
As he approached, his dark eyes were fixed on the prisoners; and when he came opposite to them he halted.
Boyd returned his insolent stare very coolly, continuing to smoke his pipe. Slowly the golden-brown eyes of Butler contracted, and into his pale, handsome, but sinister face crept a slight colour.
"So you are Boyd!" he said menacingly.