The other answered by another question; his thoughts had come back to the red-haired prisoner at the top of the hill, and it struck him that the man in the cart might recognize him.
“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Wattie Caird.”
“You belong to these parts?”
He nodded.
“Then come on; I have not done with you yet.”
“A’m asking ye whaur’s Flemington?”
If Callandar had pleased himself he would have driven Wattie down the hill at the point of the sword, his persistence and his pestilent, unashamed curiosity were so distasteful to him. But he had a second use for him now. He was that uncommon thing, a disciplinarian with tact, and by virtue of the combination in himself he understood that the troopers in front of him, who had been looking forward eagerly to getting their heads once more under a roof that night, would be disgusted by the orders he was bringing. He had noticed the chanter sticking out from under Wattie’s leathern bag, and he thought that a stirring tune or two might ease matters for them. He did not see his way to dispensing with him at present, so he tolerated his company.
“Mr. Flemington has a bad wound,” he answered. “He has gone to Brechin to have it attended to.”