Callandar was at his elbow, and his voice broke on him as the voice of someone awakening him from sleep.
“These are my orders,” he was saying, as he held out his own letter; “you know them, for I am informed here that they are the duplicate of yours.”
There was no escape. Callandar knew the exact contents of both papers. Archie might have kept his own orders to himself, and have given him to suppose that he was summoned to Forfar or Perth, and must leave him; but that was impossible. He must either join in hunting Logie, or leave the party on this side of Huntly Hill.
“We had better get on,” said Callandar.
They mounted, and as they did so, Wattie also got under way. His team was now reduced to four, for the terrier which had formerly run alone in the lead had died about the new year.
He took up his switch, and the yellow cur and his companions whirled him with a mighty tug on to the road. He had been waiting for some time in the bracken for the expected horseman, and as the dogs had enjoyed a long rest, they followed the horses at a steady trot. Callandar and Flemington trotted too, and the cart soon fell behind. Beyond the crest of Huntly Hill the Muir of Pert sloped eastwards towards the coast, its edges resting upon the Esk, but before the road began to ascend it forked in two, one part running upwards, and the other breaking away west towards Brechin.
“Callandar, I am going to leave you,” said Archie, pulling up his horse.
“To leave?” exclaimed the other blankly. “In God’s name, where are you going?”
“Here is the shortest way to Brechin, and I shall take it. I must find a surgeon to attend to this arm. There is no use for me to go on with you when I can hardly sit in my saddle for pain.”
“But your orders?” gasped Callandar.