"Where is the English stranger?" called one; "it was he who gave Rob the knife to cut the belt!"
"Cleave the pock-pudding to the chafts!" said another.
"Put a brace of balls into his brain-pan!" suggested yet another.
"Or three inches of cold iron into his briskit!"
So, in order to nullify these various amiable intentions, Frank Osbaldistone leaped from his horse, and plunged into a thicket of alder trees, where he was almost instantly safe from pursuit. It was now altogether dark, and, having nowhere else to go, Frank resolved to retrace his way back to the little inn at which he had passed the previous night. The moon rose ere he had proceeded very far, bringing with it a sharp frosty wind which made Frank glad to be moving rapidly over the heather. He was whistling, lost in thought, when two riders came behind him, ranging up silently on either side. The man on the right of Frank addressed him in an English tongue and accent strange enough to hear in these wilds.
"So ho, friend, whither so late?"
"To my supper and bed at Aberfoil!" replied Frank, curtly.
"Are the passes open?" the horseman went on, in the same commanding tone of voice.
"I do not know," said Frank; "but if you are an English stranger, I advise you to turn back till daybreak. There has been a skirmish, and the neighbourhood is not perfectly safe for travellers."
"The soldiers had the worst of it, had they not?"