All the world knows the tale of the Rising of 1745. It is a story that each generation cherishes with undiminished affection. Some have called it the last burst of chivalry in modern history, and doubtless for that reason when other more vital aspects are forgotten, the campaign of Prince Charlie will sustain its fascination and its glamour.

In an age peculiarly commonplace and sordid, it carried the spirit of romance well-nigh to the throne itself; in a period almost destitute of loyalty and patriotism it glorified the reckless gallantry and self-sacrifice of devotion.

That Charles Edward Stuart could land with only seven followers and carry all before him into the very heart of England is wonderful enough. But that in the days of his misfortune and flight no one was found to claim the reward for his life is finer still. That poor, unarmed, uneducated men were ready to die in hundreds is a testimony not easily forgotten.

Of those great days when the Jacobite army marched south much has been written, and the facts are familiar to all. But of those grey days following Culloden Moor less is known, and in the last fluttering of the Jacobite Cause there is much that must necessarily baffle and perplex the casual reader.

The Highlands were to a large extent divided in opinion. There were Jacobite clans, and Hanoverian clans, while between the two were men like Major Fraser of our story, anxious to keep clear of both. There were devoted chiefs like Lochiel, scheming chiefs like Lovat, chiefs who wavered and trifled like Macleod, or were downright traitors like Glengarry and Barisdale, and there were the tragi-comedians like poor Murray of Broughton, who was more hated than he deserved.

Finally there were, like poppies in the grain, the adventurers, men with nothing to lose and something to gain (such as Muckle John himself), serving no chief, nor clan, marauders more Jacobite than Hanoverian, like birds of prey hovering for the kill. It is of this side of the '45 that I have principally treated.

Clan jealousies again must not be forgotten, and the universal hatred of the Campbells played, as always, its miserable part. Those who condemn Cumberland and his troops must not forget that in the persecution after Culloden the hunting down of the fugitives was ardently pursued by the Highland militia and the men from Argyllshire.

The story of a campaign is but a lightning flash in the history of a nation. Long after, the thunder rolls into silence. The Rebellion of the '45 was only the fuse that destroyed at a blow the clan system of centuries. From Culloden onwards the transit of the old into the new was swift and tragic in its coming.

FREDERICK WATSON

MUCKLE JOHN

CHAPTER I
HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS

It is often your stupidest boy who is most likeable in a helpless sort of way. Not that Rob Fraser was a nincompoop, but there was a confiding innocency in his shadowless blue eyes that only a rascal could have turned to his own advantage.

Rob was not accounted promising at school, and during the study of such subjects as Latin and Greek his mind appeared to be focussed upon the next county, nor was he regarded as reliable at games, for his movements were in tune with his thoughts, which were more often on the trout in the pool than on the ball in his hand.

It was this abstraction that divided him from the other boys of his age, not because he was unpopular, not because he lacked pluck, but just because he was silent for days at a time, and made no confidences. It was a state of mind that drove his aunt, good woman, to a kind of arctic fury. For years she strove to beat it out of him, but it served no purpose except to send him upon the hills for days together.

There comes a time when you can't beat a boy larger than yourself. Not that Rob would have complained or refused to submit. He was indifferent to such things. He had plenty of spirit of a dogged and inflammatory character, but it did not lie that way. If it consoled his aunt to beat him, then let her do so by all means. For all he knew it might be the time-honoured custom of maiden aunts.

Miss Macpherson was, above all, a practical woman, and it was Rob's dreamy obliviousness to facts that fretted her. To sit watching muirfowl for hours together was more than any sensible body could tolerate. And that was Rob all over. He knew where the two-pound trout lay in the burn up in the hills. He could bring a curlew from the next glen in a perfect frenzy of agitation to learn what was the matter. He would spend nights together watching fox cubs playing under the moon. But of school and its tasks he had no tolerance.

He was lying on the bank of a stream that spring day when it all came about. He did not hear the footsteps nor did he see the shadow on the water, but of a sudden there stood a very large and pleasant gentleman beside him, dressed in riding clothes, and with a handsome claymore at his side.

"Cuddling?" said he very affably. "I mind the day when I could lay the bonnie ones in rows upon the bank."

Rob stared at him with his ingenuous eyes.

"It is fine to be young," went on the strange gentleman, "but there were no days like the old days."

"Why do you say that?" asked Rob.

The stranger suppressed a smile at his eager curiosity.

"They have said that," he replied, "since Robert the Bruce heard it from his grandfather."

"But were the old days so fine?"

"Fine enough," he replied absently; "fine enough and yet none sae fine either—there is a bit tune I'm minded of..." and he took a curious little instrument out of his pocket made of reed, shaped like a piccolo.

Then sitting upon a rock he played a tender little air with one eye glued to Rob to see how he took it, and his head cocked very drolly upon the side.

"There's the 'Brogues of Fortune' for ye," he said.

"Is it a very old tune?" asked Rob, greatly taken with the gentleman.

"As old as the hills, laddie, and that's past counting—as old as the burn and the shadows on the brae, for it's part and parcel of them all, just strung together by mysel'."

"You made it?"

"Hech! there's nothing to skirl about. I make them all day. I canna eat my dinner but my feet are dirling to a tune that has no name and must have the go-by until I have a spare moment. Make them indeed!"

"What else do you do?" asked Rob, in his innocent blunt way.

The stranger laughed.

"I can hear the owl passing over the brae in the night, I can see the stag hunkered amongst the crags, I can catch the otter at his play."

"Can you call the weasel from his hole?" asked Rob.

"Maybe I can," replied the other, "but try you first."

At that, getting rather red in the face, Rob uttered a thin squeal such as a wounded rabbit gives, like the squeal of a rat for shrillness. Again and again he made it, but nothing moved in the broken place under the bank.

"None so bad," said the stranger, and distending his lips he sent forth such a screech that it froze Rob's blood. In it was the terror of the chase—the fear of what was following, and the drawing of blood.

And before their eyes, not four feet away, at the very first note the lithe form of a weasel leapt quivering upon the heather.

"It takes a deal of practice," said the stranger gentleman for fear he might seem overproud.

But Rob was utterly crushed.

Back dived the weasel for his lair, and lying down, the stranger told Rob of the ways of wild things until it was dusk. Presently without so much as a good-day but only a nod he buttoned his coat and crossing the burn set off up the hill, and Rob saw him no more, at least not for two full years and over, not indeed until the Jacobites came to Inverness in the year '46.

It was about nine of the clock on the morning of February the 18th, 1746, that two horsemen rode into the town of Inverness.

Now there might seem nothing strange in that, but rather in the manner of their coming, which was at a headlong gallop. Rob Fraser, hurrying to the Grammar School, had scarce time to leap aside as they careered up Church Street, their beasts in a lather with sweat. Rob gave them one quick glance as they thundered by, noting that one had lost his hat, and the other his stirrup-irons; that both horses were fresh, grass fed beasts new from the fields, and then, on swift, light feet he sped in pursuit.

The Grammar School saw little of Rob when promise of news was going. For it must be told that in the year 1746 Inverness was in a rare tumult, and none knew just how the future lay.

In August of the preceding year Prince Charles Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland, had won the clans to his banner, had defeated the Government forces at Prestonpans, and had marched into England. Receiving no support in the south, he returned to the north with his gallant little army. Then came the second victory at Falkirk, and the retreat towards Inverness with the Duke of Cumberland on their trail.

It was at such a time that two horsemen galloping recklessly through the streets of Inverness were bound to create a commotion. None could say what would befall within the next few weeks. Inverness was Jacobite by instinct; but there was no pleasant flavour about the word "rebel." In truth, the good people of the town were at their wits' end to know which way to cry.

But not so Rob Fraser. Despite the opinions of his father, despite the sour words of Ephraim Macaulay, the schoolmaster, and the dour face of the minister—Rob Fraser was a Jacobite beyond recall.

For a boy of sixteen he was slightly built, but lithe and wiry as a hill-fox. His hair was longer than is customary to-day, and covered by a broad blue bonnet. His features were regular and clean-cut, the eyes dark and sombre, his cheeks and neck tanned by wind and wild weather. In his rough jacket and faded kilt, with his torn and patched stockings and his soaking brogues, he made a queer enough spectacle—not one would say the ideal picture of a hero of romance. He wore no sporran, such luxuries were not for him, and his kilt was but a roll of tartan belted about his middle, but he carried himself with all the dignity of his race. He was a schoolboy, but out of school he was a Fraser, and were the Frasers not in the field with the Master of Lovat? Those were days when schoolboys had small time for lessons. Only the night before Lauchlain Macintosh had eluded the sentinels and given warning of the plan to capture Prince Charlie at Moy Hall. There was no speaking to Lauchlain at the Grammar School for months after. Indeed, things were too critical for sums and tags of grammar. Already the Prince was threatening Inverness. At any moment there might be a battle at the very gates of the town, and who could say what might happen then?

Meanwhile the two horsemen had pulled up their steaming beasts in the market place, and the one who had lost his hat raised himself in his stirrups and shouted for silence. Rob, worming his way through the people, arrived in time to hear his opening words.

"We have ridden hot-foot," the man cried, speaking in Gaelic, "for the Pretender's army is even now marching on your town."

At that there was a sudden clamour of voices, some cheering, and not a little hooting, for the name "Pretender" was not pleasant in Jacobite ears.

But Inverness was in Hanoverian hands, and so the noise died away, and all eyes were turned again upon the man on the horse. He was a great, red-faced fellow, very pompous and self sufficient, and had his hair not looked so laughable through the loss of his hat, might have impressed his auditors enormously.

The news he had brought sent a strange stir through the town. People began to talk in little clusters in the roadway, taverns quickly filled with gossipers, shutters began to rattle together, and anxious faces peered round the corners of windows.

Suddenly down the street sounded the tramp of feet, and a score of excited eyes were turned in the hope of seeing the Highland army march into the town. But no—it was the Hanoverian garrison some two thousand strong, commanded by Lord Loudon, about to evacuate. At that the confusion grew more intense, and ardent Jacobites could scarce refrain from donning the white cockade, while less ardent Hanoverians did not know whether to cheer or take to flight, and honest tradesfolk wore long faces thinking of their goods, for who could protect them against wild, Highland caterans, hungry from long marching?

Rob slipped from group to group, listening to a word here and there, feeling a bitter contempt in his heart for these people of streets and shops.

The Hanoverian soldiers had passed out of Inverness by midday, and crossing the Moray Firth retired into Ross-shire, and still the clatter of voices went on, and here and there a group of men were walking the streets with claymores at their sides, ready for the arrival of the Prince. At last Rob Fraser, grown weary of idling, turned in the direction of the school, and stealing inside the doorway was astonished to find it very quiet and empty, and with no sign of boy or master.

Of that master, whose name was the strange one of Ephraim Macaulay, something must be said.

He had arrived in Inverness three months earlier, on the introduction of the Lord President Forbes, and his predecessor had been asked to retire. The whole business was very mysterious. Some said the old schoolmaster (who was a whole-hearted Jacobite) would return, and others that he was in disgrace with the Government, and counted as a conspirator for the Stuarts. At any rate, Mr. Macaulay appeared, and from the moment he had entered the place Rob had hated him with all his heart.

Mr. Macaulay was an exceedingly tall, thin man, very straight and smileless, with a long, hatchet face. He was decently dressed in black clothes, and wore silver buckles on his shoes, but there was something strange in his manner, and in his secrecy, and there had been rumours that he saw overmuch of Lord Loudon. In his aspect there was a strong resemblance to a hawk, through his habit of staring unblinkingly into space. For minutes together he would stand thus, and then of a sudden he would start and stare keenly about him with his sombre black eyes, and awaken, as it were, to his duties, which he seemed to find utterly irksome and dejecting.

Rob went on tiptoe into the room where he was in the habit of listening (somewhat absently) to the words of Ephraim Macaulay, and crossing the floor, peered into the shadowy passage which led to the schoolmaster's study.

The door was ajar, and from the room beyond came the sound of voices, a low grumble in deep undertones, as though two men were in close conversation—and very full of it. He heard a chair fall as though a man had sprung to his feet, and while he hesitated Mr. Macaulay cried "Muckle John" in a tone of surprise and agitation. "In Inverness," replied another voice strange to Rob.

Rob turned to steal away, but even as he did so the murmur of voices ceased, and before he could make off, the study door was flung back, and the long arm of the schoolmaster shot out and clutched his shoulder. It was so quickly done that he could not even duck for safety, and before he could shake himself free, the master's companion had cut off his retreat and gripped his arms. He had been caught eavesdropping.

Mr. Macaulay glanced at Rob with unmistakable malice, then, springing to his feet, he laid hands upon his cane.

"What have ye heard?" he asked sharply, but with anxiety written all over his face.

"Nothing," said Rob stoutly, "I did not know there was any one there."

"Come, Rob," said the master speaking with a strong lowland accent, "I'll leather ye for eavesdropping if for nothing else," and he began slowly approaching, his fingers twitching at his sides, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"Are ye ready, Rob?" he said, passing round the table, his head thrust forward, and a grim smile upon his face.

The boy took a step backward, so that a stool lay between them, and flung a glance about him for a way of escape. To his back lay the fireplace, and to his right the open window, but high up and so small that only a cat could have reached it and passed through.

"You've learned your new trade quickly," said the stranger with a chuckle. It struck Rob, desperate though he was, as an odd thing to say.

Meanwhile the schoolmaster had begun to slowly unbutton his coat, and to turn back his shirtsleeves. His companion had seated himself near the door—to leave ample space for what was to come. The seconds were flying, and still Rob stood, his eyes darting hither and thither, until suddenly they rested upon the wall above the fireplace. Now an ancestor of the former master had been a man of some prowess, and it was his claymore which hung over the mantel-shelf, and so fascinated Rob's eyes. The basket hilt hung down to within three feet of his arm. Could he but reach that!

Slowly Mr. Macaulay folded his coat and laid it down. He relished this prolonging of agony. It was never his way to have done with a thing. He even waved the cane a little, the better to find its balance. And then with a swift spring Rob had leaped upon the stool and gripped the sword upon the wall.

Uttering a cry of rage, the schoolmaster sent his cane whistling downwards, but it fell short, and with a great wrench, Rob ripped the claymore free, and sent it whirling in a circle about him.

And at that moment, far away, rising and falling, the flaunting skirl of the bagpipes came floating in through the open window. For a moment they all stood like people in a tableau.

"The Pretender!" gasped the stranger, springing up.

The schoolmaster let the cane slide from his fingers upon the floor.

"Humph!" said he, eyeing Rob, "it's like we'll postpone your beating, my lad." He gloomed a little with a heavy frown upon his face, then slowly unlocking the door, he stood aside for him to pass. But when he saw Rob still retained the sword he hesitated and laid a hand upon the boy's arm.

"What's the meaning o' this?" he asked.

"It means," returned Rob, with head erect, "that I'm no pupil of yours, Mr. Macaulay—but a soldier, should the Prince have me."

"Oh, he'll have ye right enough," sneered the master; "he's nane sae many, and rope is cheap. Good-bye, my bonny recruit. We'll meet again belike."

Taking no notice of his words, Rob hurried to the doorway and out upon the road.

The clangour of the bagpipes was filling the narrow streets and the cheers of the townspeople rose and fell as the Prince's troops marched past.

Suddenly the volume of sound grew deafening, and hats were flung into the air on every side. For a moment he caught a glimpse of a young man riding upon a bay horse who smiled and nodded his head, holding his bonnet in his hand.

And in that swift vision Rob knew him for Prince Charlie, for whom he was prepared to risk his life.

CHAPTER II
THE COMING OF MUCKLE JOHN

The muffled tramp of feet went beating past along the road. That such an army should have caused such utter panic to the English throne and sent London into a condition of wild terror, was amazing, and must ever remain so. Ill clad, poorly armed, ragged, gaunt, undisciplined, it presented a spectacle more like an assemblage of starved vagrants than conquering soldiery.

Many were quite old men, many were stunted, sickly creatures, coughing terribly as they limped along. Boys, many without shoes or stockings, some not more than sixteen, made up a goodly part of that desperate force. Many of those who owned swords had them tied about their waists with ropes of straw. Perhaps a third of the entire force were capably equipped with targe, claymore and dirk, while a number had firelocks slung across their backs.

They may have been dusty, ragged, footsore, but to Rob they were heroes of romance. He looked beyond their haggard faces and their bleeding feet and shabby clothes. They were a veteran army as yet unbeaten. They carried themselves with the confidence of victory, accepting the cheers of Inverness with the air of men receiving their due.

Through a sort of mist Rob saw the tartans swinging, looked into unknown bearded faces, caught the glint of sunlight upon the cold whiteness of steel. The crowd about him began to thin; the last of the troops had passed. Already the road was a swaying, excited tumult of people.

Now at the back of Rob there stood a tavern owned by Major Fraser of Castleleathers, a former friend of Lord Lovat, but fallen into adversity. He was a great rubicund man some sixty-six years of age, and with no particular interest in either Jacobite or Whig. Rob knew him well. Many a happy evening had he spent listening to his stories of the great days of long ago.

Major Fraser thought things had come to a pretty pass when English troops were hounding good folk about the country side. Rob heard him say so from the tavern door. He was standing on the top step staring with half-closed eyes after the disappearing Highlanders. Above his broad red forehead, his white hair was fluttering in the quirky February wind.

"That you, Rob," he cried, "come your ways in lad," and he shivered and stamped within, Rob at his heels.

Inside the taproom there was a solitary occupant. He had evidently never stirred for the tumult outside, for his legs were upon the mantel-shelf, and his head was sunk upon his chest. All Rob could see was a very broad back and a great red neck. He took him to be an exceedingly powerful individual, and one more used to the saddle or the hills than taverns.

"Have they passed?" growled the man at the fire, in a deep contemptuous voice.

"They have," replied Castleleathers, shutting the door, "and Frasers amongst them."

"Like enough, and the Master but a boy, James, fresh from college. His father has muckle to answer for."

"I ken fine, but who knows how this will end? I'd no break my heart if old Sim had his neck thrawn...."

The man at the fire brought down his feet with a bang and swerved about on his chair. To Rob there was something strangely familiar about him.

"Leave your bad debts to me," he said, "I have a bone to pick with Lovat, and..." then seeing Rob, his eyes narrowed and he fell into a sudden silence.

"Whist!" said Castleleathers, "it's only Rob."

But the other said nothing further, only frowning at them both, and then of a sudden he uttered a low whistle, staring over their shoulders.

Now the window was some four feet above the ground—one single pane—and peering through it was Ephraim Macaulay, the school-master. For a single instant Rob saw him, then with a bound the stranger was at the door. He stood gazing up and down the street for a moment, then returned.

"James," he said, "I knew I was right, and when I see yon face I scent trouble brewing just as surely as when the corbies come sailing over the brae."

"It's the schoolmaster," said Rob.

But neither heeded him, and without a word the Major took him by the shoulders and pushed him out into the street, securely locking the door behind him. With the strangeness of it all fresh upon him Rob clutched his claymore and began to make his way homewards. He wondered where he had seen the great man in Fraser's tavern before, or whether he had dreamed of him. The memory of him though baffling, was curiously vivid in its way.

Rob lodged with his aunt, his mother's sister, and was not ashamed to admit that he had a wholesome terror for Miss Margaret Macpherson. What would she say to his plans? What, indeed?

Miss Macpherson was very tall and exceedingly gaunt. Her countenance was as bleak as a wind-swept hillside, and there was a stony glare in her grey eyes which seemed to turn the very atmosphere to frost. Her figure was all points and angles—jutting out where her shoulders rose towards her neck, and seeming to extend indefinitely into her arms. Rob knew those long, sinewy arms with their thin, gnarled hands ever ready to swoop. Miss Macpherson's customary attitude was like that of a great bird of prey, mightily beaked and clawed, pouncing swiftly, and rising again to sit and watch upon a crag.

She was sitting before the fire as he entered, and when she saw the sword in his hand there came over her grim countenance a quick change—a swift tightening, as though she had received a shock but would not own to it.

"Aunt Margaret," said Rob, with a rush to get it over, "I'm marching with Prince Charlie's men to-morrow."

She made as though to rise, then sat where she was, only her hands trembled as she held them to the fire.

"So schooling's over," she said, quietly, "and now we're off to the wars, are we? A fine spectacle that will be for your father's son. It's the gallows now, is it, along with a rag-tag and a bonny Prince? Ye'll want a polish to this sword, I'm thinking, and some bannocks for your travels. Oh, I'll cook ye bannocks, my mannie—fine, hot bannocks."

She watched him narrowly, all the time, wishing to frighten him, and finding that he remained unshaken she shrugged her shoulders and set about laying the table, her long, thin arms clutching the dishes. Rob noted with dejected eyes, that she was setting the things for one.

"How old are ye?" she asked at last, her back still turned.

"Sixteen past," he answered, slowly.

"Aye," said she, "I suppose ye are."

She stared at him then with a queer look in her face—as though she would have beaten him had she been able. Then, placing another platter upon the table, she jerked her head at him to sit beside her.

"Rob," she said, after a long silence, "to me you have always been undergrown for your years. It seems but yesterday since ye came."

"It was eight years ago," he answered, still upon his guard.

"So long?" said she, and took up her knife, but eating nothing.

The meal proceeded in utter silence. Rob would have given a world to be away. What was in his aunt's mind he did not know, he could not guess. Her face expressed nothing, only her eyes stared at him unblinkingly, like the unfathomable eyes of an eagle.

"Rob," said she, at last, "when do you get your marching orders?"

"To-morrow, Aunt Margaret," he replied. "You must not be grieved at my going; I cannot bide here when my people are out. Of course, we may not leave Inverness for a while."

"Yon old fox, Lovat, is safe at home," she retorted. "When the chief bides it is not good for the clansmen to stir."

"But the Master is out," he hastened to add, referring to Lord Lovat's son, who was in command of the clan Fraser.

"It is the sly pussie sits on the top of the wall. Well, well," she concluded, "what's done's done, and so off to bed wi' ye, and get your sleep."

Rob, concealing his delight at his aunt's apparent complacency, rose to his feet, and wishing her a very good night—for which she thanked him grimly—betook himself to the adjoining room, and flinging himself down on his bed was soon fast asleep.

It was pitch dark when he awoke some two hours later, and he awakened so suddenly that he started up in bed listening intently. Surely somebody had spoken in the room! But there was no sound, only the crying of the night wind in the street outside. And then there fell on his ears a muffled murmur of voices in the kitchen, and a faint noise like the falling of shoes upon the stone floor. Stealing across the room, he knelt before the door and listened with a sudden dread in his heart.

For a moment he heard nothing at all, then to his horror he caught the whisper of a voice he knew too well—the shrill, nasal accents of Mr. Macaulay, the schoolmaster, in close conversation with his aunt.

So near were they both to the door that he could hear every word they said.

"I tell you I saw him," said the schoolmaster.

"But what of that? Every one knows that old Castleleathers is safe as Mr. Hossack himself."

"Who cares two pins for Castleleathers—it is the other I want..."

"Ye mean the big man..."

"That I do. If I can lay hands on him I'll fling a net over more rebels than if we had Lovat himsel'."

"But Rob knows nothing of this. He's only a laddie gone daft over soldiers. He'll have forgotten all about it in the morning."

"Not he—but if he can tell me where one whose name I'll no breathe to you nor to any one else, can be found, I'll see his neck is safe."

"Then on wi' ye," whispered Miss Macpherson, "for I doubt we must save Rob if we can. Ye hae the rope."

"That have I," returned the master.

Then followed complete silence, and a second later the faint creaking of the door behind which he crouched. Rob sprang to his feet, and paused irresolutely. He was unarmed and helpless.

Very slowly the door began to open. He knew it by the draught of air upon his face. In the pitch darkness he leaned close to the wall waiting for them to pass him towards the bed.

But at that moment there sounded very faintly, like the sighing of the wind—the far-off catch of a tune—a little twisted coil of melody such as the fairies dance to.

"Hold!" whispered Macaulay, in a low tense voice.

"It is but a laddie's whistle," snapped Miss Macpherson, "haste ye."

But he appeared to have a dread of something in his mind.

"That is no boy's whistle," he replied sullenly, "but the pipe o' Muckle John."

Then Rob could have shouted for joy, for he knew in a trice who the great man in Fraser's tavern had been, who but the stranger on the moor who had lured the weasel from his lair. Nearer came the ripple of music, and then sounded a lusty banging at the street door and a man's voice shouting for entry.

"Whist!" said his aunt, and again came the knocking.

"Wha's there?" she cried.

"Open!" returned the voice—a deep bass voice like the noise of a bull. "Open in the name of the King!"

"Better open, Mistress Macpherson," counselled the master; "though I would I were out of here. If I had a sword, but who ever saw a dominie with such a thing?" and he laughed ruefully, while a furious knocking beat upon the door. Presently Rob saw the yellow light of a candle, and heard the falling back of the bolts.

A cold burst of night air rushed into the place, and with it there entered a great, formidable looking man, so tall that he must needs bend nearly double to enter, dressed in riding clothes, and with his hat rammed down upon his face.

Rob slid into the room. Beside him stood Mr. Macaulay, the rope still dangling in his hands. His aunt was facing the stranger, holding the candle high so that its rays fell upon his face.

So they stood for a moment, and then the stranger closed the door behind him, swung off his hat, and made a sweeping bow.

"MADAM," SAID HE, "I CRAVE YOUR PARDON FOR THIS SEEMING INCIVILITY."

"Madam," said he, "I crave your pardon for this seeming incivility; but I am new come to Inverness, and am quartered here until to-morrow."

(Not so new-come thought Rob, mindful of Fraser's tavern.)

All the time the stranger's alert blue eyes were speeding hither and thither about the room. They paused for a moment on the rope in the master's hands, took in Rob at a glance (but with no appearance of recognition which grieved him), and then returned to Miss Macpherson, who had never acknowledged his presence by word or nod.

"Sir," said Rob to the stranger, "Mr. Macaulay was even now enquiring for you."

"Thank ye," he replied, "but I have already seen the rope in his hands. Maybe it could be used for a better purpose..."

Mr. Macaulay was as near to the door as the stranger. With a bound he reached it, and flung it back. And then with another swirl of air he was gone into the night.

The stranger watched his departure with upraised brows and a smile upon his lips, then he stepped to the door and closed it, bolting it with careful hands.

"For the present," said he, turning to Rob, "he's gone: You are not afraid of my company, are you?"

He grasped him gently by each shoulder as he spoke, and looked into his eyes.

Rob shook his head. Afraid of the man of the moor! He was suddenly overtaken by a curious shyness of this mysterious man with his shrewd, inscrutable blue eyes, his great Highland nose, the whimsical twist that lurked at the corners of his mouth, and his massive head far up near the rafters through the vast height of him.

His clothes had a foreign cut, and he betrayed the inflection of a strange accent underlying his words accompanied by occasional gestures of the hands that strike a northerner as affected and womanly. His voice was very deep and soft and so persuasive that few could withstand him. Even in anger it was never harsh—but some said he never permitted himself to grow angry and for that very reason always won his own way. Even Miss Macpherson only angered him once.

Meanwhile the stranger was eyeing them both with droll intentness. If only the honest can meet another's gaze without flinching then he must have been a very honest man indeed, for there were few he could not stare down, and what is more take a relish in so doing.

"How are you named?" he asked, still grasping the boy by the shoulder.

"My name is Rob Fraser," he replied, "and this is my aunt, Miss Macpherson."

"Then I am in good company," he said, and letting go of Rob began to warm his hands at the fire, turning them backwards and forwards to the blaze. "It is good," he mused after a while, "to have peat reek in one's nostrils once again. What a bonny room this is. There are few pans like those in Inverness I'll warrant. I would like fine to taste a bannock of your cooking, Miss Macpherson. I know a good bannock when I see it, and it's long since I've had a taste of old Scotland..." at which he sighed and stared upon the ground.

Somewhat mollified, despite herself, Miss Macpherson set the table again, and busied herself amongst her household utensils. Over the peat fire a pot was swinging on a chain from a cross beam above. The place was full of the rare smell of it. But the stranger said nothing, though he must have been eying out for a basinful. Instead he drew Rob to the fire, and spoke to him in his low musical voice, sitting upon a stool with his great coat hung up upon a peg beside him and the steam rising from it and losing itself in the blueness of the peat reek.

"I saw ye the day," he said. "It was just after our forces, heaven help them, had passed. I canna bear to look at them. I feel like a man watching a procession of bairns and dying men..."

"Have you been in another war?" asked Rob.

"War," said he, "this is not war. Man Rob, I've served all over Europe and seen the armies of Frederick advance like the thunder of surf on a western isle. I have seen service in Poland, Austria, and the Netherlands. I have fought under Saxe."

He paused and seemed to draw some pleasure from Rob's flushed face and eager eyes.

"Last year I lay before Tournay under a starlit sky while all around me breathed thousands of men who lay before many hours on the field of Fontenoy. That is war, Rob, not skirling up and down the country with a few hundred puir Hielan' bodies."

"But I am enlisting," he said, considerably chilled by such words.

The stranger sniffed over the pot most audibly. The savour was more than a hungry man could tolerate.

"You would make a rare campaigner, Miss Macpherson," he said, "Rob is surely daft to think of losing such a stew for all the thrones of Europe."

"It is only an ordinary stew," she said, with a faint flush on her cheeks.

"It may be for you, Miss Macpherson—I'll no deny it—but as a man not strange to stews I'd call it by another name..." and he smacked his lips and drew in another draught of it with relish.

"Weel, weel," murmured Miss Macpherson, and taking off the lid she set a knife into a piece of meat and with a spoon she emptied the gravy upon a plate.

"Draw in your stool," she said, and laid the bannocks beside him. Then after a momentary hesitation she laid a round black bottle upon the table. "It is from Laggan way," she said.

"A bonny country," he replied, and without delay set to with the greatest zest.

Meanwhile Rob drew near the fire, and laid a peat or two upon the dying glow. He suddenly remembered how near he had been to falling the prey to his aunt's schemes, and yet to look at her face one would have said she suffered no disappointment or resentment. There was a strong vein of fatalism in Miss Macpherson.

When the stranger had finished eating he pushed back his stool, and wiped his mouth very genteelly with a kerchief.

"And now, sir," said he, addressing Rob, "what is this talk of the wars?"

"Aye," re-echoed Miss Macpherson, brightening, "ye may well ask that, Mister..." she hesitated.

"No matter," he replied quickly, "my name will keep."

"I want to fight for the Prince," said Rob, sturdily; "I have this claymore." And he brought it from the corner where it lay.

One look was sufficient for the stranger.

"Ye are a hundred years too late, my man," he said, regarding the rusty sword with a critical eye.

"It is all I have," said Rob.

"And all ye are good for," retorted his aunt.

The stranger meanwhile sat with his chin resting on one hand, a frown upon his face. Of a sudden he stirred fretfully.

"What sort of talk is this?" he cried. "To-morrow or the next day will see us scattered like muir fowl; but we've had a run for our money, whereas, you, poor lad, will have a sair run for your life. Bide a wee—there will be other risings," at which he stopped, and won a smile from Miss Macpherson for his brave advice.

"Thank ye, sir," she said, cordially; "and listen to the gentleman, Rob, for he speaks true words."

Rob was about to break in when the stranger motioned him to silence.

"Tak' your time," said he, "and choose your ain gait, for there's a kind of empty satisfaction in that at a time—and I will play a bit tune, if I may." At which he bowed to Miss Macpherson, and she bowed back, and that none so stiffly.

Then drawing the selfsame reed from his greatcoat pocket that Rob had heard two years before, he began to play, and the manner of his playing was like the singing of a mavis at twilight. He played tunes both Scottish and foreign, strange, melancholy snatches of music very haunting to hear, and then, quite suddenly, he broke into a Jacobite melody, and Rob sat with eyes glued upon him, while a great stillness crept over the place.

The fire had died down, and the room fallen into darkness when he ceased, and it was only to lay the pipe upon the table. For out of the silence came the most wonderful voice; and the strange gentleman, rising to his feet, was singing an old Highland lament as though his heart would break. Rob stole a look at his aunt, and saw her lip—that iron, resolute lip—was trembling. Even the stranger's voice broke through the utter sadness of it all, at which he coughed and smiled, and then before Rob could raise his eyes (it seemed to him to have no beginning at all, so quickly was it done) the stranger was upon his feet, and even while Miss Macpherson was secretively concealing a tear he had snatched up his whistle and was in the very middle of a Highland reel. With his fingers rippling up and down the holes of the thing, and the rakish tilt of his head, and the manner in which he kept time with his feet, and his shoulders and his whole body—with all of this and the dancing firelight and the wind shut out upon the street—the thing was like the work of a bogie. Had he been a little man with silver buttons and silver-buckle shoes and a velvet jacket, then there is no saying but that he might have played himself up the chimney and over the heather, with Rob and Miss Macpherson at his coat-tails.

The music grew faster. It grew wilder. It brought Rob to his feet and sent him skipping and snapping his fingers in a frenzy. The stranger was here and there, missing notes because he could not do everything at once, and turn at the same time. And then just when the rant was at its height Miss Macpherson was at it too, first skirts held daintily from the ground, then arms akimbo, bowing, twirling, spinning. The stranger threw aside his pipe. He sang the lilt of it instead, and so facing Miss Macpherson they capered and linked arms and clapped their hands and hooched until the stools were jumping all over the floor and the bannocks after them, and the table rocked upon its legs in the corner.

"Well, my lad," panted the gentleman after it was over, wiping his face, "have ye settled the matter?"

"Sir," cried Rob, "it's the Prince for me."

"Well, well," said he, seating himself again, as though he had guessed as much.

"I believe ye sang so on purpose," snapped Mistress Macpherson, now thoroughly awakened to the danger, and considerably ashamed of herself.

"On my oath, madam," he replied, "I advised the lad against it—ye heard me with your ain ears."

"But thae songs?"

"Tuts," he said, "what are songs?"

The dawn was already in the east, and a faint grey light shone beneath the door.

With a start, the stranger rose to his feet.

"The day is near," he said, sombrely, "I must be stepping"; and for a breath or two he looked Rob in the eyes.

"And I, too, if I may go with you," said Rob, casting a glance at his aunt.

For a moment she struggled with her anger, then, taking him roughly by the shoulder, she shook him.

"Go then," she cried, "but dinna say it was with my leave. And you, sir, do what you can for him."

"Madam," said the stranger, wrapping his greatcoat about him, "I promise you that."

"What name do ye go by?" asked Mistress Macpherson, of a sudden.

He appeared for an instant slightly put about.

"The name I go by," repeated he, "is Muckle John."

"That's no sort of name," she snapped.

"It's sufficient for me," he replied, and touching Rob on the shoulder, they passed into the street.

From far away came the shrill notes of many bagpipes, and the faint stirring of assembling men.

"Rob," said Muckle John, slyly, "I thought you had forgotten."

"I knew you at once," said Rob, "but you never looked at me."

"Did I no," said Muckle John, "maybe there were reasons, Rob—there are folk would do the world for a friend of mine, but there are others, Rob—there are others."

CHAPTER III
THE END OF THE JACOBITE CAUSE

The position of Prince Charlie in Inverness was exceedingly critical. To the north lay the forces of Lord Loudon. To the east and south were the Hanoverian army commanded by the Duke of Cumberland now stationed at Aberdeen. But his position was rendered even more precarious by lack of foresight in ignoring the advice of Lord George Murray, and refusing to provide a supply of provision in the Highlands.

Judging that the Duke would not advance for some weeks, the Prince decided on the reduction of various forts and positions held by the enemy, and above all the destruction of Lord Loudon's army.

It was arranged, therefore, that Lord Cromartie (one of those incompetent officers who handicapped the Jacobite cause) should advance upon Lord Loudon in order that the menace from the north might be destroyed, and this, he prepared to do, accompanied by the Mackenzies, the Mackintoshes, Macgregors and others.

The preparations for this expedition were under discussion when Muckle John and Rob came into the main street. For a while they walked along in silence, Muckle John grown suddenly gravely absorbed, and taking such great strides that Rob was hard put to it to keep up. The dawn was come, and with it the town of Inverness began to hum and buzz like a hive of bees. Men, quartered in every house along the narrow street, commenced to pour out upon the highway, some putting on their sword-belts as they came, others wiping sleep out of their tired eyes with their knuckled hands.

It was the sight of their claymores that sent Muckle John's flickering eyes upon his companion.

"My lad," said he, stopping abruptly, "there's one thing we must be seeing too. For cutting firewood or driving bestial,* I have no doubt yon weapon might serve as well as another, but for the game of war it is disappointing," and whipping out his own sword he made a parry or two, and winked at him.

* Cattle.

"What do ye think o' that?" said he, and drove it home again into the scabbard.

"I think it's bonny," said Rob shivering with the chill wind.

"Bonny—you Fraser loon—what kind of word is that for the sword of Muckle John," and without a word, he turned his back and began to stride again up the street, snorting as he went.

"But, sir," cried Rob, at his heels, "what about me?"

"You," cried Muckle John in a huff, "what indeed?"

"I know nothing of swords," said Rob, anxious to appease him at all costs.

Presently Muckle John stopped and looked, first upon the ground and then at Rob, and so upon the ground again.

"Rob," said he at last, "had ye no better take your ways home?"

"Never!" cried he.

Without a word the other turned upon his heel, again, and so in a dour silence they reached the centre of the town.

"Rob," said Muckle John, "you see that house there? That is where the Prince is staying, and there at the door he is, and with him Lord George Murray, a braw soldier but no Irish, and so not above suspicion."

On the door-step stood Prince Charlie talking in a vexed, irritated manner to a very choleric-looking gentleman, who seemed in a bubble of anger, which he could ill control.

"Come ye with me, Rob," said Muckle John, "and keep your eyes open, and your mouth as tight as a gravestone."

As they approached, the Prince let his eyes rest on the massive figure of Muckle John, then nodded absently like a man whose thoughts are far away. Lord George Murray, on the other hand, greeted him with some cordiality, and turning again to the Prince, continued his conversation.

"I can assure your Highness that no aid will come from France," he said, "Fitzjames is captured, and that is not the last of it...."

The Prince gnawed his lip with bitter vexation.

"Your lordship was always most certain in disaster," he said peevishly, "a long face carries a long tale."

"Unless we drive back Loudon we are like rats in a trap," went on Murray ignoring the words.

"You forget Prestonpans, my lord."

The other shook his head fretfully.

"The men are tired and wearied of it all," he replied, "they want to go home—they are not regular soldiers...."

"What would you say to talk like this?" said the Prince, turning of a sudden upon Muckle John.

"Sir," he answered, "your troops are exhausted. But in the mountains you could resist the enemy until they recovered their strength."

"But there is no money—no sign of men nor arms. What of France—what of the English Jacobites?"

"What indeed?" said a low voice from the doorway.

Looking down upon them all stood a young man of about thirty—a thin, slight, anxious-looking man dressed in black, carefully tended clothes. It was Mr. Secretary Murray, or, to give him his full name, John Murray of Broughton.

"May the English Jacobites not escape their just punishment," he said gravely, "should disaster await us," and he sighed and stared out across the street.

"Shall I go north to assist Lord Cromartie?" asked Lord George Murray, who hated Broughton.

The Prince frowned as though he would like to know the inner purpose for such a plan. Then, seeing none but that of reason and loyal service, and yet doubting the latter very sincerely, he replied almost gruffly:

"We will see what Sir Thomas Sheridan has to advise," whereat the countenance of Lord George Murray grew dark with strangled rage. For a man who had risked his life and fortune and the lives of his people to be dependent upon the whim of an Irish adventurer with nothing to lose and everything to gain was enough to ruin any cause. Already the end of the '45 was in sight.

Muckle John bowed and drew Rob away. A few minutes later Lord George Murray passed them with a face like murder, bound for the North.

"Maybe ye see now," said Muckle John, "how the wind blows. There goes as good a soldier as can be, but ye'll find that whatever he advises will be contradicted by any poor Irish creature or Frenchman who may be passing. The longer Cumberland sits snug in Aberdeen the more time will there be for hectoring and desertion and the beginning of the end. Wae's me," he sighed, "I would give something to be upon the quay of Dunkirk, for there's nothing here for the likes o' me but a rope with a bit noose."

The business of procuring arms for Rob was next undertaken, and it was a proud day indeed when he strapped a targe on his back, and a claymore to his side. He was attached to Lord George Murray's flying column in pursuit of Lord Loudon, and so on the evening of that day he bade farewell to Muckle John.

The march north was uneventful, and in due course, with only a victorious expedition to his credit, Rob returned with the Duke of Perth to Inverness and was dispatched into Atholl with Lord George Murray's force.

During the succeeding weeks, the guerilla engagements of the detachments in Atholl and Lochaber were completely successful, while in the east the Prince kept at bay the dragoons of General Bland. It is not fully appreciated that the campaign around Inverness was no less brilliant and successful than the other engagements of the Jacobite rebellion.

But the war was nearing a crisis. Cumberland having waited for the spring, moved out of Aberdeen on April 8, his force consisting of six battalions of foot and a regiment of dragoons. At Strathbogie, General Bland, with six battalions, Kingston's Horse and Cobham's Dragoons, awaited his advance, while at Old Meldrum were three battalions under Brigadier Mordaunt. In this manner the entire army advanced on Inverness.

The swiftness of their approach was wellnigh fatal to the Prince. His troops were scattered on foraging and isolated expeditions, while Lord Cromartie was as far away as Sutherlandshire. Many clansmen had returned home while a great number were wandering the country-side in search of food.

On the morning of April 14 the drums began to beat and the pipes to sound through the streets of Inverness, and with Charles Edward at their head the Highlanders marched out of the town towards Culloden. On the 15th the Prince brought his army to Drummossie-Moor, with a view to engaging the enemy there. But the ground was flat and heathy and unsuitable for the method of attack most favoured by the Highlanders. Lord George Murray pleaded for more rugged and boggy country to disconcert the English cavalry, but Charles, tired of long waiting, was obdurate. It was decided that a night attack was under the circumstances the wisest plan of action. To attack the enemy crippled in artillery and cavalry work was on the surface a wise course, and accordingly about eight o'clock on that evening, Rob heard the order to prepare to march. It was with heavy steps that the Highlanders formed up, for only one biscuit per man had been served out that day and they were utterly exhausted for want of food. Moreover it was regarded as unwise to attack without the Mackenzies, the Frasers, the Macphersons, the Macgregors and Glengarry's men, all of whom were supposed to be hastening to Inverness.

However, the prospect of a night attack was sufficient to send them along with good heart, and so the twelve-mile march began, and all through the black night tramped the silent army, stumbling, falling, straying from the road, until the dawn gleamed faintly in the east and they realized that the plan had failed. To meditate attack under such circumstances was to court utter disaster. There was nothing for it but to return. The surprise had failed. The Prince, white and tired, seemed on the point of tears. All around him were haggard faces and lagging feet. Hardly a word was spoken. It was in sober truth the retreat of a beaten army....

The clansmen, now utterly exhausted, strayed back to Inverness in search of food. Many dropped in deep slumber upon the ground. In Culloden House the Prince sat in the deepest dejection. Not long after news reached him that the English forces were advancing. Once again the clans were gathered—messages were sent to Inverness to hasten the stragglers—everything was done to put as brave a face on it as possible. Lord George Murray again advised taking up a position more suited for the Highland charge, or retreating into the hills. But the Prince again rejected his counsel, and instead of seven thousand fresh troops only about five thousand exhausted men assembled on level country to meet Cumberland's veteran force.

To Rob, who looked on the Highland claymore as irresistible, the approaching conflict was none too soon, to others it came as a relief after weeks of waiting and hardship.

Of that ill-omened day everything is known, and little need be said: it was the inevitable conclusion of a forlorn hope.

The English opened fire, and for long enough bullets rained and sang through the sullen Highland ranks. At last Lord George Murray resolved on an advance, but before he could give the order the Mackintoshes, with the heroism that had ever distinguished that clan, charged recklessly, and at that all the regiments on the right moved forward, and the action began in earnest.

An aide-de-camp was dispatched to hurry the advance of the left wing, but he was shot on the way and this unhappy accident prevented the Highland advance concentrating its full shock. It has long been an established belief that the battle was lost largely owing to the defection of the Macdonalds, who refused to advance on a dispute of precedence. It is time that a story without historical foundation should be for ever discredited. The Macdonalds did not receive the command to charge until it was too late, and they found themselves faced by an impassable morass when they moved forward. When the battle was lost and the Prince in flight, they marched from the stricken moor in good order.

The English soldiery meanwhile had awaited the attack with levelled muskets and fixed bayonets, reserving their fire until the Highlanders were almost upon them. At close quarters they raked the close ranks of the clansmen with deadly aim.

The carnage was terrible. Whole ranks of the Highlanders were swept away. But it took more than that to stem that mad and dauntless charge. It broke through Barrel's and Monro's regiments, but farther they could not go, for they received a storm of grapeshot sufficient to decimate their numbers. Had the whole Highland line delivered its shock simultaneously the English army might have recoiled and taken to flight. But the failure of the extreme left to advance at all lessened the frail chance of such a tactic proving decisive, and within a few minutes the Jacobite cause was lost.

Rob, placed on the left wing, weary of waiting and sick at heart by the sight of men falling all about him, unloosed his claymore, and pulling his bonnet down upon his brows, prepared for his regiment to charge. At last they could stand the shattering fire no longer. With a hoarse noise of shouting rising from Gaelic tongues like the roar of a winter sea, they streamed forward in reckless bravery, and foremost of them Rob, running over the heavy ground towards the storm and thunder of the conflict.

Already, however, the main body of the Highlanders was wavering. The first wild charge had shattered their ranks. The English cavalry were advancing and some one shouted that the Prince was killed. Panic began to do its work. Soon after the left wing commenced to march off the field.

All about Rob arose hoarse cries, groans, eddying smoke, and the roar and clatter of arms. Into the thick of the conflict he struggled onwards. He thrust and parried and thrust again with his claymore. Well for him was it that his father had taught him the secrets of a stiff wrist and the upper cut. An English soldier rushed at him red with battle madness, and shouting as he came. Rob, receiving a blow from an upraised musket on his targe, drove home his claymore and heard the cry die out in the man's throat into a choking sob, and—silence.

Then, before he could disengage his sword, a dragoon, spurring his horse over the heaps of fallen men, slashed at his head with his sabre, and, missing him, pulled up his beast and charged again. For Rob the situation was desperate, but seeing a little solitary group of Highlanders near by, he took to his heels and reached them, picking up an English musket as he ran. He was barely in time; had not a huge Cameron armed with a broadsword hewn down his opponent, it would have fared badly indeed with him. As it was, he clubbed his musket, and standing back to back with the others, prepared to fall as hardly as possible.

The tide of battle swept backwards and forwards; but all over the fatal moor the Jacobite army was in retreat. Gradually the little group about him thinned, until only a bare dozen remained, and it was in a breathing-space that Rob suddenly perceived Muckle John amongst them.

His head was bound in a piece of tartan, and bleeding profusely; but the smile was in his eyes, and his claymore rose and fell, and every time a man floundered upon the ground. Before him there lay a heap of Englishmen as high as his elbow.

Presently the smoke of powder cleared a little, and over the moor came a squadron of dragoons at a loose canter, killing all who stood in their way, both wounded and unarmed. Round the little circle of faces Muckle John looked swiftly.

"Now," said he, "it is each for himself," and he whistled a sprig of a tune as he began to swing his sword-arm.

With a hoarse yell the dragoons were on them. Two fell to Muckle John, there was a wild clash, and a man beside Rob dropped with a groan. And then came an oppressive weight of horses kicking, plunging, rearing—and a blinding blow flung him unconscious beneath their flying feet.

It was well indeed for Rob that death seemed to have snatched him from the cruel hands of his enemies, and the pile of dead and dying about him sheltered his body from the search parties of Hanoverians now busy upon their work of butchery.

When at last he opened his eyes and stared about him silence had fallen over the field—a silence infinitely tragic and menacing, pent up with disaster and following retribution.

Very slowly facts began to stare him in the face. Even he, inexperienced in the manners of war and defeat as he was, realized with a shudder that if he could not crawl away certain death awaited him as it had met those silent figures all about him. The blow on his head throbbed horribly. He felt sick and weak. At last he made an effort to turn upon his side, and moaned aloud. Then suddenly he clenched his lips, and dropped upon his face, for near at hand he caught the tramp of footsteps, and heard the harsh voices of English soldiery.

Nearer they came, until they halted beside him.

"None for Master Gibbet 'ere," said one, and a chuckle followed.

"You never know," said another, and began dragging the bodies this way and that.

A muffled groan came from one of these unfortunates, and a moment later, to Rob's horror, a pistol barked, and the same grim silence fell again.

Then a hand gripped him by the arm, and turned him over. To feign death—that old, hazardous device—was Rob's solitary hope. He lay with closed eyes, holding his breath, in an agony of suspense. Second followed second, and no sound reached him. Stealthy footsteps he heard, and a muffled laugh, but nothing to warn him of immediate impending danger. So awful became the mysterious nature of the delay that he could hold out no longer. Breathe he must, or he would burst his lungs.

He drew in a long draught of air through his nostrils, and in a flash—before he knew what had happened, he had sneezed. A roar of brutal laughter greeted the penetrating noise, and a voice cried out beside him:

"Two to one on the snuff, Jerry; I've won the wager," and he was dragged to his feet.

Rob opened his eyes now that the worst was come. He would meet his end as bravely as he could. Four English soldiers were seated upon a pile of dead Highlanders, and another held him by the arm. He saw that there was little chance of mercy written on their brutal faces. Memories of Prestonpans and Falkirk were too sore for that.

"Well, my gamecock," said the man who held him, "so you are not so dead after all. What shall it be? A little bullet from a pistol, or a dig with one of your own claymores—more homelike that, eh?"

Rob kept silence. He could not understand a word they said in their queer, nasal twang. Vainly his eyes searched the desolate, wind-swept moor. The clash of battle was long since past. No hope of friendly succour lay there.

"Haste ye!" cried one of the four men who sat together. "There is other work. Pistol him and be done with it."

At that the fellow who held Rob stepped back a pace, and drawing his pistol, raised it and fired deliberately at him. Had Rob not ducked it would have killed him as he stood.

"A miss!" cried the others, and with an exclamation the man snatched a loaded pistol from one of his comrades, and prepared to finish the business.

Rob stood very still this time. He was too weak to run. The sooner it was all over the better.

The man was poising the pistol in his hand; he had shut one eye, and was glaring at Rob with the other. Already the trigger was moving, when a stern voice shouted "Halt!" and an English officer, very resplendently dressed, and with a white peruke, snatched the pistol from the man's hand. The other four staggered to their feet, and stood at attention.

The officer, whose back was turned on Rob, appeared to stare for a moment at the soldiers. Then, throwing the pistol upon the ground, he folded his arms and began to speak with a strong English accent, as baffling to Rob as that of his captors.

"What does this mean?" he cried. "Would you shoot a wounded boy?"

"Our orders were no quarter," growled the man who had so nearly killed Rob.

"Take your orders from me," thundered the officer in a blaze of anger, "or there will be more gibbets in Inverness than you had reckoned upon, and with fine, red-coated gentry upon them belike," at which Rob saw the fellows stir uneasily, and cast apprehensive glances at one another.

Apparently satisfied by the fear he had put upon them, the officer pointed to a horse wandering aimlessly about the moor, his reins about his knees.

"Fetch that horse," said he; "my beast was shot from under me an hour since."

Two of the men darted off, only too glad to win his favour, and all the time the officer stood with his back to Rob—a great, square figure, with a broad tear across the middle of his doublet and the long hair showing beneath his peruke. The soldiers caught the horse without difficulty, and returned with it. It was a dragoon charger, a great grey, raking beast, strong and sound.

Taking the reins in his hands, the officer turned again to the men.

"Mayhap you cannot guess whom you so nearly shot," said he darkly.

They shook their heads in an awed silence.

"Then ask in Inverness," he replied, and vaulted into the saddle.

"Now," he went on, "hand that boy up here. He's no prisoner for such as you."

In a moment, two of the soldiers caught up Rob and placed him in front of the saddle, so that he sat upon the horse's withers.

Then gathering up the reins they walked slowly away, leaving the soldiers at the salute.

A hundred yards passed and still they maintained this idle pace. Then suddenly the officer leaned forward.

"Haud tight," he whispered into Rob's ears in a voice strangely familiar, "for we're no through with it yet," and with a plunge the great horse sprang into a gallop.

"Muckle John!" cried Rob, nearly falling off altogether.

"Aye," said he, "just Muckle John and no sae happy at that."

Onward they rode at a headlong, tearing gallop, until the ill-fated field of Culloden with its heaps of huddled dead lay far behind them; and passing the water of Nairn, made for Aberarder and clattering through, thundered onward to Faraline.

CHAPTER IV
FRENCH GOLD

A thin moon was drifting above the scattered clouds when Muckle John and Rob reached the head of a wild and desolate glen in Stratherrick, and here for the first time since their flight from Culloden they drew rein and alighted. So stiff and weary was Rob that his companion was compelled to lift him down, and lay him in the heather.

The horse, utterly done, stood with his head hanging forlornly, and the sweat dripping from his neck upon the heather. Few horses would have carried them both so gallantly.

Muckle John had long since discarded his English wig and coat. He stood in his shirt and with his hair fluttering in the night wind regarding with sombre eyes the blinking lights of a house down the valley, a square white house two stories high. Twice during the brief halt a man had crept out of the encircling darkness and scrutinized them narrowly. There was no sound beyond the wind sighing amongst the corries, but each time Muckle John had seen the heather quiver before something noiseless and stealthy that disappeared as softly as it had come. Once from far up the hill he heard a long whistle like a curlew on the wing.

At last he turned his head and let his eyes rest on Rob, and then again upon the grey horse with its drooping head. With a faint shrug of his shoulders he shook the boy.

"Rob," said he, "do you ken yon house?"

With a groan Rob struggled up.

"Gortuleg House," he replied, "I know it well."

Muckle John of a sudden turned his head and raised his hand for silence.

From far away along the track they had come was a sharp click-clack like the rattle of a loose stone on a horse's hoof.

"Ye hear, Rob," he whispered, "there'll be few abed to-night. Come away, boy, this is a daft-like place to be found in."

From up the hill came the mournful whistle once again. It was answered by another far down the glen.

"The place is hotching with Frasers," he muttered, lifting Rob upon the horse, "and where the Frasers are a man must feel his way, saving your presence, Rob."

"They are our friends," said Rob stoutly, "and my people."

"I'm no denying it—though maybe ye had safer speak for yersel', Rob, but to-day will end many a friendship, and I'm no trusting Lochiel himsel' until I'm clear of this business."

Nearer they drew to the lights of Gortuleg House, but the closer they came the more cautious grew Muckle John, feeling his way with immoderate care, and with a hand upon the horse's nostrils for fear of a whinny. To the rear of the house there stood a wall with a few stunted fruit-trees in an orchard. In the same anxious silence Muckle John hitched the bridle to a branch and lifted Rob down.

"Bide here," he whispered, "until I come, and if any one speaks to you say that you're waiting upon Lord Lovat."

"Lord Lovat?"

"Who else?"

"But is he here?"

"Man Rob, I've no time to teach you elements of common sense. If ye see a wheen corbies driving across the sky what do ye ken?"

"That there's carrion," said Rob to humour his temper.

"And if ye see muckle muir-fowl cowering among the heather?"

"A hawk."

"You're doing finely, Rob;" he paused and leaning nearer added in a whisper, "I am no sure but that the hawk is nearer than ye think..." and with that he was gone, leaving Rob beneath the shadow of the broken masonry.

Barely five minutes had passed before the thud of horses' flying feet came beating down the glen. The moon riding high in the sky glinted on steel and silver, and at the commotion the door of Gortuleg House opened and the figure of an old bent man was silhouetted in the doorway, leaning upon a stick. He was a grotesque enough spectacle—very ponderous and unwieldy, large-faced and ruddy and with shifty, speeding eyes almost buried in a mass of flesh. He was dressed in a loose coat, rough baggy breeches and stockings, with large flat buckled shoes, and as he peered and craned his head he tapped in a fever of impatience upon the flagged stone at the doorway.

A single ray of light made a yellow bar upon the open space in front.

Nearer and nearer came the racket of galloping horses—the jingling of bits and scabbards—the hoarse shout of a man's voice, and into the lit space plunged a powerful roan horse all dirty grey with foam and spent mud. Upon its back there sat a young man rocking with fatigue and with his head uncovered and his coat opened to the night wind. The old man standing in the doorway shuffled forward a step and laid a hand upon his bridle-reins.

"Who are ye?" he asked in a shrill querulous voice, "and what news do you bring?"

For a long time there was no reply, and in the silence the candle in the old man's hand fluttered desperately and went out.

"I am the Prince," said the man upon the horse in a dull voice as though he were half dreaming, "I am the Prince and..." his voice trailed into silence.

"I AM THE PRINCE," SAID THE MAN UPON THE HORSE.

Round him in a half-circle the companions of that wild flight were gathered—their faces looking very dim and white like the faces of ghosts. For an instant the old man seemed to shrink into himself. His great head drooped,—the hand that gripped the bridle fell with a low thud against his side. But only for an instant. There was within that disease-racked body an energy that defied the penalties of age.

"Dhia gleidh sinn," he cried harshly, "are you tongueless all of you? Come—come in—would you sit glooming there all night? Your Highness," he said, breaking off and looking up again, "this is a wae meeting and like to be our last...."

"You are Lord Lovat," said the Prince with more life in his voice.

"It is a name," the old man replied, with a sudden twisted grin, "that I would I could disown."

A few gillies had gathered about the horsemen, and when they had dismounted their tired beasts were led away to an outhouse, and the whole party followed Lord Lovat within.

Inside the room where they made their way a great fire was burning. A table stood in the centre, upon which was a bottle of claret and some glasses. He had waited news for hours back.

In the firelight Lord Lovat regarded his visitors with sour displeasure. Now that the news of Culloden had come, and the first biting terror over, he resumed his habitual demeanour of inscrutable cynicism. He congratulated the Prince on arriving so soon, and poured out his glass of wine—he asked the names of the various gentlemen with him and expressed polite ignorance when he was informed, only remarking that he had always admired Irishmen because they took so much interest in other people's affairs. And all the time he was cursing his utter folly for having supported the Jacobite cause and plotting, plotting, plotting in his inmost mind what was the safest course to take.

Only once did his self-possession desert him, and that was when the Prince said to Sir Thomas Sheridan that they must make for the Isles.

"Make for the Isles," he cried, glaring at them like an aged wolf-hound, "what sort of talk is that? Will you desert us all and not make a stand in the hills? What is one defeat? You must make terms, sir, or you'll have more to answer for than ever your father had."

"It is no good," replied the Prince dejectedly.

"Oh, why," cried Lovat, trembling with fury and vexation, "did ye come and ruin us at all?"

At that they tried to soothe him, telling him that he had taken no part—that he was an old man—that he could hide for a season. To all of which Lovat shook his great head. He never deceived himself.

"More than that," went on the Irishman, Sheridan, pacing up and down before the open window, "all is not lost. The clans will assemble again, and French gold is even now on its way. Gold," he added, "will unite us again as quick as honour."

He smiled, little guessing how far he erred in that while Lovat listened absently.

"French gold," he repeated, "and how can they land gold now?"

"They make for Lochnanuagh," replied Sheridan, "and...." but the Prince broke in:

"Come, gentlemen," he cried, "let us to horse. We must reach Invergarry before dawn. There is no sleep for us yet awhile..." and he raised his harassed eyes to the cold sky. "My lord," he said, a moment later, taking Lovat by the hand, "do not give way to despair—we are not beaten yet."

But the melancholy tone in which he sought to cheer the old man went like a chill to their hearts, and brought the old satirical grin to Lovat's mouth.

"Farewell," replied the old man with all the natural dignity that neither age nor dishonour could rob him, "I doubt we shall never meet again."

At that they all rose, and after shaking him by the hand passed down the stairs. He accompanied them to the door and stood with no further word while they mounted their beasts. The gillies letting the reins, fell back into the night leaving him alone. He took off his hat, but made no other sign.

Of a sudden in the cold night there rang a wild tumult of horses' hoofs and they were gone as they had come.

For long Lord Lovat stood in the doorway listening, with his eyes upon the black way they had taken, and then shivering violently he turned and stumbled upstairs.

Out in the darkness Muckle John crept from the shadows. He had heard all or nearly all. He looked all around him and then stared at the upper window of Gortuleg. He could see the vast shadow of Lovat seated by the table waiting his fate. For a few minutes he stood pondering the situation, then on tiptoe he crossed the track and opened the door. Closing it gently, he made his way up the narrow stairs. The door to the room where Lovat sat was open. He halted in the passage and looked in.

On a chair before the empty fire-grate sat the old man, his eyes fixed upon the floor, his legs crossed his fingers intertwined. His lips were moving ceaselessly, and once he frowned like a man frowns to himself who is uncertain just what course to take.

At last he rose and made his way across the room and to a strong box heavily clasped. This he unlocked and opened, extracting a heap of documents and letters and laying them upon the table. Then setting fire to the peats, he began to turn over the stuff, throwing some into the flames and putting some back again into the box.

"A braw night to you," said Muckle John, standing full in the doorway. The paper the old man held between his fingers fluttered gently upon the floor. Over his face there travelled a grey tinge as though he had grown of a sudden very old or ill. But he never moved nor did he say anything.

Entering the room, Muckle John closed the door, and walking towards the fire set about warming his hands in the coolest manner imaginable. Then taking off his great coat he laid it over the window.

"On such a night," he said, "it is better to do things quickly, my lord, and privately."

The old man answered nothing. He seemed struck dumb with fear, or rage, or some kindred emotion.

"I take it from your little preparations that you know how things stand."

"I was looking through some old rubbish," said Lovat more at his ease.

"I know what sort of rubbish," replied Muckle John, extracting a letter before the old man could check his hand, "how would this sound, eh? It's no what we might call cordial to Geordie."

"I am an old sick man," said Lovat, with a suspicion of whining, "scarce able to read or write. My memory is near gone and my faculties all amiss. What do you want with me? It is late and I have much to do."

"Perhaps your lordship will remember Castleleathers, who was once your good friend."

"What of him?"

"He did me a service abroad. Yesterday I was with him in Inverness. He told me much about you, my lord—and your promises."

Lovat shrugged his shoulders.

"It is easy to listen to one side of a matter," he replied tartly. "Castleleathers is a fool—I have never suffered fools gladly."

"Even you make mistakes sometimes, my lord."

The fear of capture took Lovat by the throat.

"Aye," he gulped, "but this is no time to quarrel. Let bygones be bygones. I did ye a wrong long since, I'll allow, but surely ye can forgive and forget?"

"No," said Muckle John, "I never forgive nor forget."

"Then what is it you want—is it my life—there is little enough of that to take—or is it money—I have a few guineas?"

"It is none of these. If I wanted your life I would set the red coats on you. But they will need no guidance of mine. I want to know where the gold is to be landed that is coming from France."

"Oho," cried Lovat, "so that's how the wind blows, is it?" and he remained deep in thought for a while.

"Will you do something if I tell ye?" he asked cunningly.

"Maybe and maybe no."

Lovat moistened his dry lips.

"There are sore times coming," he said in his husky voice, and speaking in Gaelic for the first time, "and I am not what I was. There may be folk who will swear black is black instead of white—you will be taking my meaning? Were I to fall into the hands of the Government it might go badly with me. But there are ways...."

"And they?"

"I have not taken arms, though my son has. They would never harm him being a mere boy, but they might forgive his old father should he hand him over. It must happen one way or the other. But I cannot lay hands on him. What would you say to that? It is for the boy's good—"

"Impossible—you are pleased to insult me."

"Then what will you do should I tell you?"

"I will not dispatch these letters to the Duke of Newcastle."

A sickly grey colour crept into Lovat's cheeks.

"You would—you would?" he gasped. "You would play into English hands, you would sell me?"

"There was an occasion," said Muckle John, coolly, "when you nearly did the same to me."

"Long ago—long ago."

"In the year 1728 to be exact."

Lovat's eyes flickered over the strong box and back again.

"How did ye know there was treasure?" he said, to make time.

"You forgot to shut your window."

"You played eavesdropper?"

Muckle John sighed.

"The hour is late," he replied, meaningly.

"I am in your hands," said Lovat.

"Then tell me where the gold is to be landed. I could not catch the name of the place."

The old man leant forward suddenly.

"It is on the coast of Knoidart," he replied.

"You swear it?"

"Such were the words that Sheridan said."

"It sounded unlike Knoidart, but I could not hear."

"It was Knoidart."

For long Muckle John tried to read truth or lies in his face. But the expression of Lovat was guileless.

"If you have lied," said Muckle John at last, "I will hound you down."

Lovat gently drew the palms of his hands together.

"Why should I lie?" he said.

"Then good-bye, my lord, and look to your papers, for to-morrow will bring dragoons and..."

"Enough," broke in Lovat, "I am not afraid."

He sat perfectly still until Muckle John had gone down the stairs, then with a grim smile he set about sorting his papers.

"Knoidart," he chuckled, "it's little gold would remain in Knoidart."

Out in the night Muckle John stood deep in thought, then climbing softly over the wall he reached Rob and the great grey horse.

"I must leave you for a while, Rob," he whispered, "but I'll return, never fear, and keep watch for the bit tune—ye mind the way it goes—" and he whistled a bar. "Keep on the top of the hills, laddie, but mind the skyline, and never stir by day. It's advice easily given but a weary business to follow," and putting his foot in the stirrup he mounted and walked softly down the glen.

A great loneliness stole over Rob, left as he was in a country he hardly knew, and with a throbbing wound, and a keen hunger on him. Stealing round to the house he made his way to the hall, and hearing no sound of human souls anywhere he entered the kitchen and happened upon a plate of cold porridge. This he devoured, and re-entering the hall he lay down before the fire and fell asleep.

Upstairs Lovat crouched before the fire. Hour after hour passed and still he spelt out with his tired weak eyes the contents of one sheet upon another. Once he nodded and a letter passed unread—a letter that was to weigh in the scales against him later. For an hour he slept altogether. But as the dawn was creeping back over that stricken country, the day following Culloden found him still bending with a haggard countenance over his correspondence, every letter of which might bring him to the scaffold.

At dawn on the same morning that saw the Prince speeding westward and Muckle John upon the road, before the moon had sunk behind the hills, Rob Fraser stole out of the hall and made his way into the open air. Already rumours were drifting through the village that the English were on the march towards Gortuleg, and all who were suspected of having taken arms for the Prince would be summarily dealt with, and their houses given to the flames.

Round the premises of Gortuleg dwelt the same melancholy silence as on the night before. Every living thing seemed to have fled. The very kennels were empty. Only one shaggy Highland pony whinnied in the desolate stable, hungry and alone.

A grey mist was driving down the glen, and a thin drizzle of rain had set in with the coming day.

As Rob peered up at the windows wondering what had befallen, he caught for an instant a pair of eyes fixed upon him, and heard a noise of shuffling feet. Coming from that deserted place it sounded so dreary that he was near taking to his heels. Before he could move, however, the huge bulk of Lord Lovat loomed into the shadowy doorway. Leaning heavily upon his stick with hunched shoulders, and a face unshaved and the grey colour of chalk, he stood with muttering lips. Then shuffling forward a step he stared blankly at Rob like a man whose thoughts are far away on another errand.

"What o'clock is it?" he rasped at last; and pulling off his wig, patted it idly, and rammed it again upon his head.

"Six o'clock, your lordship," said Rob, in a great awe of him.

"Six o'clock!" He frowned suddenly, looking all around him with pursed lips. "Where are my servants?" he cried. And when no answer came he quoted a scrap of Latin, and chuckled as though the context tickled him.

"Well, well," said he at last, "and who are you, boy?"

"Rob Fraser, sir."

"Thank ye," he snarled, speaking in broad Scots; "but it's a name as common as muir-fowl hereabouts. Why are ye no with the Master, that unscrupulous rebel, my son? Mind how I spoke of him, Rob, should they ever dare to take me."

"I heard ye, my lord."

"Aye, and speak up for an old man, Rob, whose havers may be misinterpreted, ye ken. What is it ye will answer, Rob?"

"That you called your son, the Master, an unscrupulous rebel," he replied.

Lovat nodded his great head approvingly.

"Bonny it sounds. That'll make the House o' Peers sit up. We'll carry it with silver hairs and injured innocence, Rob—an auld man, my lords, near doited with years and sorrow."

He paused, and the look of fear twisted his features once again.

"It would look better to bide here," said he, in a mutter to himself, and so, with a pinch of snuff, he turned towards the door again. But a moment later he was back, and this time his limbs fairly shook with fear.

"No, no!" he gasped, one gout swollen hand upon his breast. "I canna wait here like an auld maimed dog. There are places I can bide until arrangements can be made. Quick, boy—saddle a horse and let us go."

"The horses are all gone, my lord," said Rob.

"All gone? So that is how they treat me. Then we must walk until we find one. Surely my people will help their chief."

"There is a pony, your lordship," cried Rob, and going to the stable he led out the powerful little beast.

Shuffling back to the house, Lovat crept up the creaking stairway and returned some minutes later with his strong box.

"Fasten it behind the saddle, Rob," he said, "or better still can I trust ye to carry it?"

He stood for a moment glooming at the ground and then begun to hunt amongst his pockets for a piece of paper which, when he had found it, he read most carefully and tittered in a strange falsetto manner to himself.

Then taking a silver whistle from his waistcoat he blew it three times and took to breathing upon his frozen fingers.

From the heather a hundred yards up the glen two men had risen at the first note, and came running towards them—long-haired, ragged gillies, Fraser by their tartan. They stood a little way from Lovat, watching him like dogs ready for the trail. The frost of their night watch stood upon their bonnets and their beards were stiff and glistening. Waving Rob aside Lovat began to speak to them in a low tone, but before he had said more than a dozen words his voice rose to a scream through the influence of some private passion, and he menaced them in Gaelic so that they quailed before his clenched fist. But as suddenly his voice dropped and he caressed them, patting their cheeks and then dismissing them, stood panting beside Rob—all the fire gone—once more just an old sick man.

Very slowly he clambered upon the pony, and so they started and began to pass the cluster of huts near Gortuleg. The frightened people trooped out of their doors to see their chief go by, and a dozen Frasers armed with muskets and swords gathered about him and trudged in silence towards the west.

At the corner of the brae Lovat turned and looked back on Gortuleg. Beneath his bullying, tyrannical, shifty character there was a kind of bedrock of that highly coloured sentiment that is akin to melodrama. He played to the gallery with infinite zest and genuine enjoyment. It was a nice pose to combat the diminishing power of the chieftainship—where force was a dangerous weapon, sentiment was often a two-edged sword.

"Farewell," he said, in his deep voice and with honest tears in his eyes, "for maybe I shall never see you again."

It did not matter that the house was not his, nor an imposing habitation at the best of times. All that mattered was that he was at the turn of the brae, going downward—an exiled chief. Fully conscious that the setting was saga-like the clansmen set up a piteous lamentation, and bowing his great head Lovat motioned them on, and the journey continued. And in this fashion after many weary hours they reached Loch Muilzie in Glenstrathfarar and for the time being considered themselves in safety.

Far away, dimly discernible in that wilderness of heather, two men were running like wolves on the trail—two men with dirks by their sides, and death in their hearts—running tirelessly. On the outskirts of the Fraser country they passed another man who was watching the pass and without a word he joined them—three men running in single file, bending double in open places—heading for Knoidart.

Long after, when the sun was falling, Muckle John pulled in his horse for the third time within an hour and listened intently. From the drenched hillside a curlew was crying amongst the shadows, and from up the hill came the clamour of a muir-fowl.

But no whisper of the danger that lurked unseen amongst the silences—awaiting the night.

And then with troubled eyes he continued his way, taking cover where he could, seeking a place of refuge.

CHAPTER V
LOCH ARKAIG

Day followed day with no sign of the soldiers, and as time passed, Rob wished most fervently that Muckle John had not disappeared so abruptly, leaving him in an unknown country with a helpless old man.

One morning there was a movement in Lovat's hut and the old chief stood peering out of the doorway looking very savage and uncouth. He had forgotten to place his wig on his head and the scattered tags of grey hair were caught by every gust of wind.

"Rob," he said at last, shivering with the cold, "take a day in the hills and learn where the English are and whether a French frigate is off the coast."

Only too glad to fall in with such a suggestion Rob prepared to set off at once. Suddenly Lord Lovat called to him.

"Rob," he said, "where did you come from that night?"

"I came from Culloden."

"Culloden—and did you meet anyone on the road?"

"Only Muckle John."

The Fraser's cold eyes swooped down on him like a hawk dropping from the clouds.

"Muckle John," he repeated, "I seem to know the name—so you came with him did ye? And where were you, Rob, when the horsemen arrived? Was Muckle John with you then?"

"No, he had left me."

"Of course—of course—and then he came back and told you he was going away on important business, Rob."

"He said he would return."

At that Lovat left him, laughing as though something mightily funny had been said. But at the door he turned, still convulsed with his humour, and wagging a finger at him remarked:

"Mind my words, laddie, the race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong."

But Rob only looked at him in wonder, seeing nothing but an old sick man overtaken by dotage.

Then setting out upon the heather he made for the head of Loch Arkaig.

HE PEERED THROUGH THE HEATHER UPON THE BEACH.

Throughout the day he saw no glimpse of red-coats, and when evening was falling he stepped boldly down upon the shore of the loch, and thence onward to Lochnanuagh, where, to his excitement, the white sails of a frigate were bellied out with the breeze. Hastily concealing himself he peered through the heather upon the beach where a great number of people, principally Camerons and Macdonalds, were collected, and with them a squarely built, consequential little man very plainly dressed, who seemed greatly agitated about the numbers on the shore and anxious to disperse the crowd at all costs. But the more he cajoled and threatened the more closely they thronged the beach, and in the meanwhile the frigate had run down her anchor and lowered a boat. In it Rob could distinguish four men and some cargo, which had been slung down from the deck. On the shore there was a sudden silence almost startling after the clash of voices before. The creak of the rowlocks came nearer, and though far up the hill—so still was the day—Rob could catch the French manner of their speech, and once he heard the small man upon the beach cough and blow his nose.

But immediately the keel of the boat grated upon the shingle, the greatest animation was displayed. The sailors threw the cargo (which comprised some half-dozen little casks) upon the sand, and under the instructions of the little man they were carried into a secluded place and a rope slipped round them, whereupon he set about paying the sailors.

At that moment, however, there was a sullen boom like the noise of a gun far out at sea, and without a second's delay the boat shot away to the frigate, the anchor was raised, and running up her canvas she wheeled like a sea-bird and catching the breeze sped towards open water. From the noise of firing out at sea it was apparent that an action was in progress between an English man-of-war and the French ships.

The excitement upon the beach now boiled to fever heat. The hills nearest the bay were soon black with spectators, and in the midst of this new sensation the casks upon the beach were forgotten by all except the little man.

Indeed, had he not passed so close leading a Shetland pony very carefully and yet urging it to its fullest speed, Rob would never have remembered the landing of that mysterious cargo and consequently never have been mixed up in the tragedy of gold. But to Rob there was something enormously mystifying about the character of this solitary traveller, with his anxious manner, and the rattling casks ranged high upon the pony's flanks. It was like an old wife's tale of the fairies and their secret kegs of heather ale.

Partly because they were going the same road—partly because his curiosity was awake—he followed him through the heather, keeping a sharp eye meanwhile, for again and again the man upon the track would swing suddenly about and send his gaze ranging the hill-side for fear of being followed by the people on the shore. But always he did so with the utmost haste, urging the pony onwards after each halt, as though he feared the approach of night, or something that Rob knew nothing about.

And so they reached Loch Arkaig, and on the shore of the loch the man seemed to hesitate and take thought, and then hitching the pony to a tree he conveyed the casks to the sand beside the edge of the heather, and flinging off his coat, drew a spade from a hidden place and commenced to dig.

Twilight had come, and so shadowy had the shore grown that Rob crept nearer, wriggling through the tufts of heather and rock as noiselessly as an Indian.

Suddenly, however, he saw the head and shoulders of some one else silhouetted against the grey surface before him, a man who crouched and ducked his head as the digging ceased or recommenced upon the beach with the same care that he himself was practising. It was evident to Rob that there was more in all of this than he had imagined.

At last, apparently satisfied, the watcher began to retreat towards him, running on all fours up the hill-side. So rapidly did he come, indeed, that Rob had no time to roll out of the way, and with a swift bound the newcomer flung his full weight upon him, uttering no sound whatever, and together they rolled over and over in each other's arms.

One moment Rob was uppermost, then the other, who seemed all arms and legs and sharp clawing fingers. Twice Rob felt his throat gripped and two thumbs upon his windpipe, and each time he managed to jerk his head away. Then with a swift dive of his right arm he reached the knife in his stocking, and pulling it out he plunged it into his assailant's shoulder. It was a small blade, ill-fitted for dangerous work such as this; but a thin scream told him that he had penetrated the man's thick great-coat. Then perceiving his opponent jerk his head about with the pain, Rob clutched a heavy stone and driving it against his temple sent him senseless upon the ground.

It was a narrow escape, but fortune had apparently come to his aid in the nick of time. With a gasp of relief he sprang to his feet, when out of the darkness a voice said: "Stand, or I fire!" and the cold barrel of a pistol was rammed against his cheek.

He had forgotten the man upon the shore.

"I am unarmed," gasped Rob; "and it is the man upon the ground whom you should guard against, not me."

At that the pistol was lowered, and seating himself the newcomer laid it upon his knee and ordered him to relate his account of the fight, to which he listened with the closest interest. Then rising he bound the unconscious man's arms and legs with some rope which lay upon the beach, and thrust a rough gag into his mouth.

"And now, my lad," said he, "tell me what brings you here."

With some hesitation Rob related his experiences of the last two days, and when he had finished his companion clapped him upon the back.

"Bravely done," he said; "and let me tell you that Archibald Cameron is proud to meet ye." So saying he wrung him warmly by the hand and sprang to his feet.

He was that Dr. Archibald Cameron, brother to Lochiel, who was to suffer death at the hands of the Government in the year '53, a very gallant gentleman and the last to fall in the Stuart cause.

The moon was climbing into the sky as they stepped towards their prisoner; but Cameron first took Rob aside and whispered in his ear:

"What I buried," said he, speaking in the Lowland tongue, "would set the Highlands in a blaze. It is a merciful Providence you turned up as you did. For now we can hide it all the easier in another place, or maybe two places. But give me your oath on the naked dirk that no word of it will ever pass your lips except to the Prince."

"The Prince?" echoed Rob, who had followed him with difficulty.

"And who else? Did ye no jump to what the bonny casks meant? French gold, boy—enough to buy every claymore in the Highlands and Argyll as well. Now d'ye see? Come, Rob."

With that, Cameron approached the man upon the ground and motioned Rob to take his legs while he grasped him by the arms. So they made for a hollow place, and as they laid him down he groaned and opened his eyes, and at that moment the moon, clearing the tops of the trees, played its pale shafts upon the ghastly face of Ephraim Macaulay, late schoolmaster in Inverness.

CHAPTER VI
THE WATCHERS BY NIGHT

Darkness overtook Muckle John to the south of Loch Garry in the Macdonald country. He had travelled without halt all day, keeping to the less frequented roads, and seeing on every side traces of the panic that followed Culloden. In every village was the same terror and the same frantic haste—some burying claymores with desperate hands so that they remained only half covered—others taking to the hills with their wives and little ones. Once a party of two hundred or more passed him on the road making for the south-west. They wore the look of men utterly dispirited, limping in broken ranks for all the blithe playing of a piper at their head.

Then plunging on through the heather he put mile after mile between him and Fort Augustus.

It was about three on the same afternoon that he pulled in his horse very sharply and swinging about gazed back. He was not sure that he had heard anything. It was more a premonition than anything else, but a northerner pays close heed to such things.

Everything was very lifeless and dreary on the road he had come. There was no sign of man or beast. With a grim look in his eyes Muckle John continued his journey.

But about an hour later he swerved behind a ledge of rock and cantered swiftly up the hill, keeping behind a huddle of crag for some hundred yards. Then turning as rapidly he watched the back trail. Several minutes passed and there was no sign of living thing. Presently, however, something moved ever so slightly just where the last rock towered out of the heather. A man's head rose and fell again.

With a faint smile Muckle John continued his way. His horse was very tired—twice it had nearly fallen through pure weariness. That it could carry him little further he realized at once. He did not know how many pursuers were on his track, but he put them down as Highland caterans ready to cut a throat for a purse. In that case they would wait till he slept, and rush upon him. It was, therefore, a matter of life or death for him to find a place of refuge before the sun fell.

The evening was closing in and he was so tired that he nodded as he rode. Nowhere in that rolling desolate country could he see a house or any trace of clachan or croft. And behind him waiting for darkness were men as crafty and cruel as Indians and just as patient. If not to-night then to-morrow, and he might wander over—miles of heather for days on end.

Meanwhile the brain of Muckle John was working. The future lay open to him like a man reading a map. He must throw them off the scent or perish. If not to-night—to-morrow. He would never come to grips with them—that he knew too well. It would be in his heavy sleep in the blackness of a Highland night. It must not be thought Muckle John was much concerned at the prospect. Those were days when life was not held dearly, and when a soldier of fortune might be hard put to it several times in a week. It was more the indignity of the business that irritated him. He was not accustomed to being stalked like a young stag. Most men gave Muckle John a wide berth.

Even as he brooded on the matter the grey horse tripped and fell. No power on earth could have kept it on its feet. It was utterly done. With a groan it collapsed upon its knees and rolled over on its side. Muckle John had slipped off as it staggered and now stood above it studying the next move. He was above all anxious to get a glimpse of his pursuers. Loosening his sword and taking a pistol from his great-coat pocket, he lay alongside the horse as though his leg were securely fastened beneath it in its fall. It was an old trick, but this was a country of few horses and worth a trial. He knew that they would close in on him if they saw him apparently crippled and at their mercy. Slowly the minutes passed and there was no sound, while a mist rose from the moist bed of the valley and hung in wreaths between the hills. Muckle John lay perfectly still, his pistol hidden beneath the tail of his coat, one leg stretched over the horse's flank, the other doubled up beneath him.

Near at hand a stone clinked at the burnside. It might have been a hill fox creeping away, but Muckle John knew that a fox does not do such things. He felt the eyes of some one upon him—but he could see nothing, and all the time the darkness was falling swiftly and his nerves were strained to the uttermost, waiting as he was upon his side for the rush of perhaps a dozen men.

Up the hill he heard an owl call and at that he smiled, for he knew—who better—that it was not the night for owls to cry Glengarry way, and that there is a world of difference between the call of a man and the call of an owl except to those who have never made it their business to note such things.

It was all falling out as he had expected, and he waited quite coolly for what was to come, foreseeing nothing of what really happened. Indeed it all came about so swiftly and so silently that few save Muckle John would have lived to learn another lesson in methods of attack.

Now there was an eminence immediately above him, such a natural frontage of rock as one sees on many a hill-side—places naturally avoided by the wild things unless they travel up wind or come upon them from above. Muckle John was looking upward when it happened. He was quite aware of the danger he ran, but he was waiting for a man's head to show itself against the sky-line just over the ledge. Suddenly, without warning but with only a muffled scraping like small pebbles scattered wildly, the sky was blotted out altogether, and at that Muckle John leaped like a hare and leaped just a thousandth fraction too late. The boulder, for that was of course what had been launched to crush him, killed the dying horse on the instant. But it also smashed the pistol of Muckle John and crumpled his sword like a thin strip of tin, imprisoning the tail of his great-coat in the ruin. It was neck or nothing now, and wrenching himself free he gave one glance at his arms and flinging them down set off through the trees that fringed the hill-side—running for his life. Knowing that his pursuers were probably tired men he set the pace in the hope of flinging them off, keeping the upper part of the hill, seldom stumbling for all his riding-boots and the darkness, and sometimes pausing for a breath of time to hear whether he had cast them off. But always at the same distance behind him he caught the dull padding of feet like wolves on the trail—tireless as deer. He made use of every feint he knew. He doubled on his tracks, he took refuge in places beneath crags. But always silently, patiently, utterly undaunted they came on. He could not see them but he heard them moving ever nearer, biding their time. There might be six or there might be twenty—he could not tell.

A desperate plan occurred to him to carry the war into the enemy's country—to pick off single men and throttle them noiselessly in the heather. But there was danger in that. He was unarmed now, and some one might give the alarm and they would overcome him in the struggle. Stumbling on he looked about him for a river or a loch in which he could swim to safety, or some cleft in a rock where he could hope to meet his assailants single-handed.

But there was nothing in all that dreary maze of darkness, and with anger and despair in his heart he settled down to a long tireless trot, waiting to outwit them if he could.

It was about two hours later that the moon filtered thin shafts of grey light through the scurrying clouds, and in a twinkling the landscape showed dimly and Muckle John found himself at a narrow pass running between two hills with a precipice of rock reaching up hundreds of feet on either side. Then the moon disappeared and he set off at a great pace up the rocky track, knowing that here, if at all, there lay a way to safety. On each side was the smooth surface of rock. There was no place to take refuge, but who could tell what use might be made of such a place? He must have covered half a mile at a quick pace—all the quicker because he knew that those upon his heels, running barefoot, would be handicapped by the loose stones and jagged edges of rock—when he came out upon the open moorland again and on the breath of the wind he caught the smell of cattle. And at once he saw a way.

Again the moon trailed out upon the misty sky and with eager eyes Muckle John searched the vapour. A clump of shaggy dripping coats huddled in a sheltered place to his right, that was all, but it satisfied Muckle John, for very quickly, knowing that there was not a moment to lose, he drew near to them and running amongst them, with a great shout brought them lumbering and snorting wildly to their feet. A vast Highland bull bellowed in the driving mist, but seeing nothing stamped his feet and shook his horns uncertainly. Then unsheathing a small knife, Muckle John drove the blade into a heifer beside him and sent it at a gallop towards the pass. Running hither and thither, but always avoiding the bull, he kept them moving, moving, until the head of the narrow way was reached, and at that he drew back and halted for the moon.

It came again in all serenity, streaming on to the desolate place with a thin forlorn kind of light, making the shadow of Muckle John look very large and the clump of cattle, some fifty of them and their perplexed and irritated leader, look like the cattle of a dream.

The time was ripe. With a strange noise in his throat like the roar of a stag Muckle John dropped upon his hands and made towards them on all fours—a weird enough spectacle on a lonely moor and very unnerving under a hazed moon. It was the last straw to the agitated beasts packed at the head of the pass. For a moment the bull stood his ground, but his heart failed him, being a bull barely three years old, and losing his head he set the panic ablaze. It was helter-skelter down the gorge and Muckle John at the back of them with his naked knife in their flanks. Again and again his wild cry rose and fell, faster and faster they thundered on until nothing could have stopped them—least of all three Frasers caught just midway like rats in a trap. What happened can never be known in its grim detail. But the herd passed on, and the beat of their feet died down and was swallowed up in the silent night.

And after them Muckle John, scanning the ground behind them, treading leisurely down the moonlit pass. Suddenly he paused and shivered at what he saw. Then walking on he paused again, and once more about fifty yards away he bent his head, and this time he took up a flutter of blood-stained tartan and peered at it very closely.

Presently he grinned like a dog.

"Fraser," he said, "what brings Frasers so far from Lovat at such a time—except to carry a message at the end of a dirk? What will Lovat say when he waits for news of the killing of Muckle John and he waits in vain?"

He stared at the strip of tartan for a long time, and then setting it on a ledge of rock he cut it into three equal parts.

"I doubt," he said grimly, "but there'll be a coronach playing when the last of you comes home."

Then making his way to the head of the pass he lay down underneath the shadow of a rock and settled himself to sleep.

CHAPTER VII
BURIED TREASURE

A faint cry of dismay fell from Rob's lips as he met the evil glare in the schoolmaster's eyes. Cameron, too, seemed more than a little shaken at the encounter, though he said nothing, but appeared plunged in thought about the future.

In the hollow place where they stood, it was impossible for their prisoner to see anything save the open sky, and a thousand twinkling stars.

After a moment Cameron stepped gingerly beside him, and pulled at his bonds. Then, tearing a strip of cloth from off Macaulay's shirt, he bound it round his eyes as though to hide their gleaming malice from sight.

"Come, Rob," he said, in a whisper, "there's work for you and me this night. When we have ended we will set him free," and he led the way back to the shore.

It was very still and lonesome there with only the soft wash of the loch and the sighing of the wind amongst the trees, and Rob wished the matter well over, and himself back in the comparative security of Lovat's company.

"While I dig them up you roll them along the right bank," whispered Cameron, warning him to keep in the depths of the heather, "and lay them down in the shadow of the burn that joins the loch yonder. Should you hear a sound come back and warn me. Och!" he concluded, stepping into the moonlight, "but these are strange times." Then bending his back he sent the spade deep into the sand.

"It's fortunate for you that I caught him watching," whispered Rob, full of pride at his discovery.

"Man," said Cameron, "do I look sic a gomeral? I knew he was there from the moment I hitched the pony to the tree. Had he gone it would have fallen out just as I planned."

And so began the flight of the treasure—Rob creeping through the darkness of the trees, rolling a cask, stealing noiseless as a shadow over the wet leaves and bracken, and all the time seeing in the black night the terrible eyes of Ephraim Macaulay marking his every step. Backwards and forwards until his back ached, and the moisture stood heavy upon his brow. In the passive stillness of the night there was no breath of danger, no whisper of heather alive with fugitives, and spies, and nameless wanderers.

As he made for the slope with the last cask he saw Cameron smoothing over the place with cunning hands, and patting the marks of his footsteps about the sand. Then he too followed, and together they knelt by the stream.

"Now, Rob," said Cameron, "first there'll be a score of Highland caterans scanning this shore, and after that there'll be the red-coats, who are sure to get wind of it; and so it's our business, ye ken, to mak' siccar* of this. Maybe ye hae never hidden treasure, Rob, so let us have a crack about it. Come ye nearer. Now, when our friend in the hollow there gets his freedom he'll show a clear pair o' heels to those who sent him, an' I'm uncommon interested to ken just who they are."

* Certain.

"No, no," said Rob, with a touch of importance; "he is after me. He is a school-master of Inverness...."

"Oh! Maybe, maybe," broke in Cameron. "He is capable of being all that. But it's mair than you, Rob—though I hate to seem to undervalue your importance, laddie."

"Then he is not..."

"Whisht! What does it matter who he is? So ye understand, Rob. Follow him, and see whether he makes north or south, and then when ye know that I will send you on a journey, for I am travelling east mysel'."

"But Lord Lovat."

The man beside him started.

"What of him, Rob?" he asked quickly.

"Maybe he will require me."

Cameron laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Rob," said he very gravely, "Lord Lovat will require mair than you to save his auld neck, and for mercy's sake dinna breathe a word of this night's wark to him—nor to onybody but the one ye ken of."

"No," said Rob, "to nobody but the Prince."

"Come then, for time passes. When the search for this treasure commences—for mark you a score of eyes must have been watching me just as closely as your own—what will they do when they dig on the sand and find an empty huddle o' stanes? They will examine the neighbourhood for traces of spade work and footsteps. They know a single man like mysel' could not carry those casks mair than a hundred yards. They'd come straight here, Rob, like a pack of hounds on the trail."

"What can we do?" asked Rob, fearing his work was thrown away.

"There is just one thing to do, Rob, and that maybe will sound mighty ludicrous; but it is always the foolish tricks that are the hardest to unravel. When I asked you to show yoursel' upon the lochside, where it is mair light than I had looked for, it was because I had a thought, Rob, and it's just this: there are one or two gentry in this neighbourhood uncommon anxious to watch my doings this night, and, being a modest man, Rob, I'm no overpleased at the notion," and he brought his head a little nearer. "Supposing, Rob," he whispered, "you were to take my place upon the lochside for a wee half an hour, or maybe a little over?"

"Take your place?"

"Aye; put on my wig and coat (the hat I shall require), and when the moon is hid by a cloud, just scrunch upon the pebbles, and sit ye doon so that your kilt is hid. It would tak' the eyes o' an owl to see anything amiss in this dim light, Rob. Will ye do it, lad? Would ye? It is for the Prince, bless him."

"Give me your wig and coat," said Rob for answer.

With a sigh of relief and no further word, Cameron set the wig upon his head, and wrapped the long great-coat about him, turning up the collar. Then they remained in silence gazing at the cold grey sky.

"Quick," said he, at last, "there's a cloud coming," and he pushed Rob gently from the gloom of the trees. At the same time he sang a line of a song for any who might doubt him, and fell back out of sight.

When the moon swam out of the fleeting patch of cloud it fell upon the figure of a man who was sitting on a low piece of rock, with his elbows on his knees, and his back to the shore, and in the dead stillness of the night who could guess how many watched that black, crouching form, wondering why he never rose or walked about, but only sat with his chin in his hand, staring out across the loch.

Meanwhile Cameron passed noiselessly back to the place where the casks lay. Forewarned is forearmed, and he was not foolish enough to suppose that the hiding of treasure in the Cameron country would be an easy matter.

His clan had much love for him, but they also had an uncommon respect for gold, and times were hard. So a week before the frigate had flashed into Loch-na-nuagh he had dug a hole under a rock in the stream which ran into Loch Arkaig, and inside the hole had hidden a small barrel for holding half the contents of the casks (which contained bags of louis d'or). The other half, for safety, he had resolved to conceal elsewhere, while the casks, empty of gold, he had decided to bury in a hasty fashion just where Rob had placed them.

And in this manner the stiff work began, for only two hours of darkness remained.

Happily the wind had risen, and the sound of his preparations were unheard. That Cameron was nervous and anxious to be done one could have told by his frenzied haste. First he walked upstream for fifty yards with a bag upon his shoulders. Then he slid a large boulder across the waterfall to divert the current, and dropped his burden under the bed of the stream, where the open barrel was ready to receive them. Then he returned, never putting foot upon dry land, and so, with an aching back and bleeding fingers, he toiled on until at last the barrel was full and the lid on, and the stone rolled back so that the water rushed over the spot under which the treasure lay.

The digging of a hole for the casks down the stream then commenced, and that ready, Cameron set off towards the mouth of the burn in the opposite direction from where the first portion of the gold lay buried; and still wading in the current, he began to approach the shore. About a score of yards from the loch a great rock rose by the side of the burn, and some six feet above it a single branch of a tree swayed stiffly in the night breeze, extending in a straight line from the trunk, for near the shore the hill-side was woody and thick with undergrowth.

Now the hardest part of the work began. He first of all slipped a piece of rope through the loop of the remaining bags holding the end of it in his hand. For a moment he rested, then leaping upon the rock, he crouched an instant, and sprang straight for the thick branch above him. Grasping it tightly, he swung himself cross-legged upon it, and leaning over began to haul the bags up beside him, slinging the rope securely about the tree.

Having detached the first bag, he conveyed it along the branch, and, smoothing aside the leaves, there was revealed a hole in the trunk of the tree about the size of a saucer, into which he squeezed it. This he did many times, until the contents of the second half of the casks were inside the hollow trunk, and then rearranging the leaves, he took a bird's nest very gravely from inside his hat, and laying it over the hole, slipped a couple of eggs from a little bag round his neck inside it, and let himself down again upon the rock.

Then burying the casks as he had planned, and that but carelessly, so that the top of one of them even stuck a little through the turf, he threw a few gold pieces upon the ground. The work was finished. Stealing back, he gave a low call to Rob, who, waiting a moment, slipped back to his side.

Cameron without a word slipped on the great-coat and his wig again, and patting Rob upon the shoulder, led him down upon the beach, where the bright moonlight made the loch gleam like beaten silver. The spade he had concealed in a secret place.

"Let us have a crack together for a moment," said he in a low voice. "That we will be seen is probable, but I think none watched just now. Ye might wonder why I," he continued, speaking more loudly, and with his head turned a little towards the trees, "who have exercised such care, have trusted you, Rob, who are a stranger to me. Then I just canna tell you, for I do not know, and that's the sober truth. Anyway here is a plan o' the places and other things; and dinna let this out of your hands, Rob, and if ye are taken, swallow it, or destroy it in some way. In case we are watched take it from my hand as though we were saying good-bye. Now!" and extending his right hand, Cameron cried, "Good-bye, Rob," in a very clear voice. and made to pass the paper; but with a flustered movement he bungled it, dropping it upon the ground.

"Tuts!" said he, and stooping quickly made a great business of thrusting it into Rob's hands. "Follow that spy to-night," he said, "and then haste ye on the footsteps of the Prince, and tell him that I wait his instructions in Lochaber. Should ye need me send word that 'there's a muir-fowl snared.' Mind the words, laddie, for I'll ken by that ye are taken."

At that moment there was a small noise like a sigh behind them, and Cameron started and peered into the darkness.

"Speak lower," he said, "you understand?"

"I do," Rob replied.

"Then come. Let us set the fellow loose, and after that the less we see of Arkaig the better." So saying he led the way to the hollow place.

The moonlight shone smoothly down between the swaying tree-tops, but it fell upon empty greensward and bristling heather. No man lay there. Not even his ropes remained. It was as though he had been spirited away. Without a word, Cameron drew Rob swiftly back.

"Separate and run," he whispered in an agitated voice, "for we must be surrounded," and bending his body he darted amongst the trees towards the open hill-side. At that Rob overtaken by a sudden fear of the unknown, and a great dread of Ephraim Macaulay, took to his heels, and running in a direction at right angles to that in which Cameron had gone, he doubled on his tracks, and dropped down under a bank of heather.

Fortunate it was he had done so, for swift flying footsteps sounded close above his head, and two men sped past him into the wood. Then, crawling on hands and feet, he made for the head of the loch. But he had travelled a bare five hundred yards before the clear soft note like the sound of a chanter drifted towards him. And the bar that it played was the fantastic, ghostly tune of Muckle John, the same twisted melody that had so shaken the school-master in Miss Macpherson's house.

Nearer it came, and he lay flat upon the ground with a fallen tree before him. Suddenly on to the moonlit shore stepped a figure he could not mistake—the huge shoulders and chest, the massive head of Muckle John himself. And as he played he peered this way and that, as though he were in search of some one.

Rob was about to run forward, then as quickly he sank lower in the shadow. Something held him back.

Presently Muckle John laid aside the instrument, and whistled the haunting catch of tune in the moonlight.

CHAPTER VIII
FLIGHT

Fear of the night, the unknown prowlers in the heather, the escape of the schoolmaster, and above all the danger to his paper, held Rob in a breathless silence.

And all the time Muckle John was walking towards him, whistling softly as he came. Passing a few yards to the left of the fallen tree behind which Rob was crouching he halted suddenly, and then in a leisurely fashion seated himself on the trunk of it, with the tails of his coat almost touching Rob's cheek.

For long enough he remained with his elbows upon his knees staring out upon the loch, and yet Rob never stirred, biding his time. At last with a profound sigh Muckle John began to speak to himself in a low, musing voice, like a man troubled about something and doubtful about the course he should take.

"Poor Rob," he said, "where has he got to now?" Upon which he sighed again and shook his head. "I doubt," he murmured, "that they've taken him—for he no answered my bit whistle. He would have answered had he heard, for he promised me, and Rob's no the lad to go back upon his word—oh no, you'd never suspect Rob of that," and he paused in a heart-breaking manner as though emotion had fairly overcome him. As for Rob, it was all he could do not to spring up and catch him by the hands; but he lay like a stone, utterly miserable, hating the paper and his wretched suspicions.

"Besides," continued Muckle John more briskly, "I saved the laddie's life, and glad to do it. Oh, no, no; dinna tell me that Rob heard the whistle and ran his neck into the noose I was calling him from. Poor Rob," said he again, "I doubt but he's laid by the heels by this time."

Then he stirred a little and began to button his coat.

"I must save Rob," said he in a mighty determined tone, and at that the boy touched him softly on the coat.

"Muckle John," he whispered.

The man beside him started violently, and came near to falling off the log altogether, so great appeared to be his astonishment. But with an effort at recovery he pushed Rob back.

"Down," he whispered, in Gaelic, "down for your life," and he began to stretch himself as though he had fallen to sleep. "Rob," he murmured at last, "I hope ye did na hear my vapourings."

"I fear I did," replied Rob.

"Well, well, there's no harm where no ill was spoken. But I was hurt, ye ken, that you did not heed my whistle. Speak low, Rob, for there's been a man behind yon tuft o' heather for the last half-hour."

"I was feared," said Rob, "Ephraim Macaulay was loosed and oh—Muckle John, I..."

"No suspected me, surely?" he gasped.

"I was feared, ye see, and..."

But Muckle John shook his head, and fell into a soliloquy in Lowland Scots.

"Oh, Rob, Rob," he said, "this is no pleasant hearing. It makes things difficult. I'm minded to leave ye, Rob, though I shrink frae doing so, for the country is fair hotching with spies and sic' like, and at this present moment, there's a wheen men with eyes fair glued to this spot, and all o' them just hungering for the dawn. It's a dangerous ploy ye're engaged upon, Rob, and one beside which Culloden was as snug as snaring rabbits," and he sighed again with his eyes up on the loch.

"Rob," he broke out suddenly, "it's enough to mak' me die with shame when I say it, but it's Macaulay ye think I loosed. Come then, Rob, and follow me, and I swear on the naked dirk I'll show ye Macaulay," and sliding through the undergrowth, he beckoned back to him. In this manner taking advantage of every scrap of cover, they reached the wood where the mist was rising before the dawn.

At this point Muckle John advanced very cautiously upon his hands and feet, and Rob marvelled at so large a man moving as softly as a cat. Of a sudden, however, he dropped upon his stomach and waggled his foot as a warning. For men's voices in muttered Gaelic came from behind a rock immediately to their right.

"He cannot have left the shore, Angus," said one, "for Neil is watching the brae and we will close in on him at sunrise. Besides, he is only a boy."

"There is a great man with him, Donald; who will he be?"

"I am not knowing for sure, Angus, but belike he has taken to the heather like many another pretty fellow, though he looked like one ye know of, whose name I will not be mentioning. Whoever he is—he will not be meddling with us, Angus."

"But where can the Captain have got to—he was watching Archie Cameron and then he disappeared, and Cameron too."

With a backward look Muckle John stole on, and Rob and he passed into the heart of the wood and up to the hollow place where Macaulay had disappeared. There Muckle John straightened himself, and pushing aside the bracken at the lower end of the hollow he beckoned to Rob.

"There," he said, "is your prisoner," and sure enough there lay the bound and silent form of Ephraim Macaulay.

"But how did he get here?" asked Rob. "He could not have rolled."

"Rob," replied Muckle John, "I will be franker with you than you have been with me. I brought him here mysel'."

"You?"

"And who else? But let that be. I have a notion that we must hurry," and he began to unloose the ropes about the prisoner's hands.

Rob watched him without a word, too perplexed to speak.

"Muckle John," he whispered at last, "could we no mak' use of his clothes?"

"Tuts," he replied, "it's evident ye were much impressed with Culloden day; but I would scorn to use an auld trick like that twice in one week. There are folk, Rob, would send the word round that Muckle John was no what he was," and he turned again to Macaulay and loosed his feet. But the gag he left in his mouth, only removing the bandage from his eyes. "Now, sir," he went on, addressing Macaulay in a low voice, "I have here a dirk which does its work secretly and yet with dispatch. Ye take my meaning? I have also a loaded pistol in my pocket, and I flatter myself you are acquainted with my marksmanship. Before we start upon our jaunt there are one or two questions I would ask ye. Just nod your head and I'll excuse a civil answer. I take it that we are surrounded here?"

A violent nod could just be discerned in the gloom.

"Thank ye. In which quarter are your people gathered? Point with your hand."

After a momentary hesitation the prisoner pointed towards the west.

"Brawly done, sir, I knew I could trust you to lie. So we will gang to the left just to spite ye. Now walk between us, and mind, my dirk is itching for a dig into your ribs. If we are challenged say it is only twa o' your friends, and at the first word o' treachery I'll stick you like a pig." With this caution, he drew the gag out of Macaulay's mouth.

"Hark ye, Rob," he went on in a low tone. "There are a score of men around this place, and they're after something with which you are no unacquainted. Should we win through there will be no rest for us till we are well out of the Cameron country—but I doubt the length and breadth of the Highlands will hardly be large enough."

All this he said in a very grave voice, and then taking Macaulay by the arm, he led him towards the hill-front with Rob upon his other side.

The dawn was near at hand and the driving mist fell cold as ice upon their faces. Down below them they could see the cold sheen of the loch, and hear the wild fowl crying in the reeds. After a full quarter of a mile Muckle John halted.

"Now, Rob," said he, "we have reached their line of watchers. As we pass up the brae, we will be scanned by many an unseen eye. Dinna speak, but nod to me when I address ye, and tak' the upper side, for you are nane the waur for a bit heightening," and with that they left the shelter of the trees. In the dim, grey light, the hillside looked very wan and desolate. A whaup was crying mournfully over a lonely pool of hill water. Like a shadow a dog-fox, homeward bound, slipped over the path and was swallowed up amongst the crags.

No other sound reached their ears.

Suddenly from the heather at their very feet a man leapt up—a squat, red-headed fellow with a naked dirk in his hand. Something in Macaulay's dim face seemed to have aroused his suspicions.

"Who are you?" he cried in Gaelic.

"Answer him," growled Muckle John in Macaulay's ear, but before he could say a word, the Highlander had scanned Rob's face, and with a shrill warning scream he leaped backward into the heather. It was his last mortal word. With a whistle of flying steel Muckle John whipped his claymore free, and lunging as it swung from the scabbard, drove the blade in to the hilt.

With a terrible cry the man slithered backwards and coughed, and Rob turned sick at the manner in which he writhed in the heather. Through the mist half a dozen forms came running in their direction. There was not a moment to lose. Hastily disengaging his sword, Muckle John flung his great-coat about the head of the schoolmaster, and hurling him down the hillside dragged Rob to his knees with a hand upon his mouth.

The clatter of Macaulay's flying form and his muffled cries drew the newcomers past the place where they lay, and then springing to his hands and feet Muckle John made off in the opposite direction into the heart of the swirling mist. There was a brief silence and then far away, came a shrill yell taken up again and again until every crag seemed alive with voices, and the faint glow of the rising sun made their escape seem impossible.

"They've found him," cried Muckle John, mounting the hillside at a great pace with Rob at his heels, "so it's save your breath and follow me."

There was little cover on that part of the hill, and it was evident from the frenzied shouts rising from below, that their pursuers had seen them crossing an open space.

"Quicker, Rob!" cried Muckle John, darting away like a hare, his head bent below his shoulders as he ran.

At last, when they had reached a mass of crags and loose stones, he dropped behind the first, dodging back along the upper part of the slope, while Rob scrambled behind him. They halted for a moment, about five hundred yards higher than the way they had passed a few minutes before, and Muckle John peeped round a boulder and scanned the misty slope beneath.

"Look," said he at last. Far below, by stretching his head forward, Rob saw many forms moving like dots amongst the heather. Foremost of all came Ephraim Macaulay, waving them on; then, in a rude half-moon, swept some thirty ragged Highlanders, shock-headed, bearded, fierce looking caterans, racing like dogs upon the trail.

"Broken men," said Muckle John grimly, watching them as keenly as a fox watches the hounds. "Cameron rogues and nameless cattle. Would we were out of this country."

The sun was rising over the glen, and even in that hour of deadly peril Rob must needs admire the gold light upon the blue loch, and the fresh greenness of the spring in the trees far below.

Their pursuers had now reached the point where they had doubled back along the hill, and here they were put out, searching the rocks, and spying along the other slope and making closer search.

"It was that last burst did it, Rob," whispered Muckle John, in a glow at his cleverness; "but I must admit I'm no liking the position. They're anxious to lay hands on ye, Rob, and that's the truth. I'm thinking it must be grand information ye carry, but I'm no the man to question onybody about what best concerns himsel'." Shaking his head he took to watching the movements of their pursuers again.

"I wish I could tell you, Muckle John," replied Rob unhappily.

"Och," said he with a great show of indifference, "I was only daffing ye. It's maybe only because ye were seen wi' Archie Cameron. He's no good company for folk just now."

"He's a brave gentleman, Muckle John."

"Oh, maybe; but there's aye some one to bring up stories against a man. Some say he is faithful to the Prince, but others whose names I'm not knowing will tell you he has an eye to his own affairs."

Rob listened with a flush of indignation upon his face.

"You do him wrong," he blurted out. "The Prince has need to thank him for last night's work, and I'm bound to carry word of it."

He paused abruptly, fearing he had said too much. But Muckle John was apparently intent upon the hillside.

"Look," said he, "they're coming straight for us. Now, Rob, it will be touch and go, and do what I tell you without question, for I know this country like my ain hand; and I tell ye at once that if we are not twenty mile on the other side of them before nightfall, we might as well cut our ain throats. And, Rob, mind it's you they're after, no me. Should you care to hand anything over for safe keeping, just in case—ye ken—" and he paused, looking over Rob's head.

"That I cannot," said Rob firmly.

"Then follow me," was all the answer Muckle John gave, and putting a huge rock between them and their enemies, they ran swiftly slant-wise up the slope until they reached the summit, where for a moment Muckle John looked back. The great half-moon formation of the ascending Highlanders was moving quickly upwards.

"This is no red-coat work," he gasped, "but tartan against tartan, and fox hunting fox," and away they went along the opposite side of the hill, just low enough to miss the sky-line.

As luck would have it that part of the hill was very bare and empty of cover, and ere they had gone half a mile a distant shout warned them that they were seen, and that the whole force of their pursuers was now upon their line of flight.

Rob saw a sudden tightening of Muckle John's mouth, and now it ceased to be a game of hide and seek, but a race for dear life. The pace was terrible. Rob's lungs were bursting with the straining, so that red flashes of light swam before his eyes.

"Quicker!" cried Muckle John, "they are gaining! Oh, can ye no mak' a sprint, Rob—only a hundred yards?"

For a while Rob struggled on, stumbling and gasping, until at last his foot caught in a tuft of heather, and he fell heavily to the ground. Without a word or pause, Muckle John, who was leading by some ten feet, turned swiftly, and picking him up, continued his wild race for the broken rocks that lay before them.

Two hundred yards behind came the foremost Highlanders, leaping over the ground in bounds, their claymores ready in their hands. A minute, and Muckle John had passed among the rocks, then doubling right and left, he sped towards a monstrous boulder, and scrambling up, pulled Rob on top. Now on the back of this boulder lay another great stone poised upon it, and carrying Rob over his shoulder, he clambered up and so to a cleft in the side of the precipice which fronted the hill.

Rob had been too blinded by exhaustion to notice that before them lay what was apparently a cul-de-sac with bare crag on every side, and had he done so he would have realized why the Highlanders had bared their swords. For they were to all appearances in a death-trap.

But Muckle John, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat, seemed well enough content, and placing Rob upon the barren cleft, he turned about and looked down upon the scene below. His assailants were gathered about the rock on which he had first sprung, and were debating what course to take. Far behind came the main body, and still farther away, Ephraim Macaulay.

"Rob," said Muckle John, "have you your wind yet?"

The boy groaned in reply, but struggled to his feet.

"Now," said Muckle John, "I am not the daft fool ye no doubt take me for—there is a way up this cliff only known to me and one other. You see this cleft? It runs for fifty yards in a slanting direction, and there's little enough foothold. There is a break at the corner there and a bit jump of maybe two feet, but no easy, with just a bare rock and six inches to land on. But dinna waver or lose heart, for there's no return and it's certain death to bide here. After that, climb straight up, but leaning to the left, and when ye reach a small tree-stump wait for me, for then it becomes no easy matter."

For a moment Rob hesitated, but Muckle John pushed him gently on the shoulder.

"It's death here," said he again, "for they can go back and reach the top in two hours." Then in a leisurely manner he drew his claymore to hold the rock against assault.

Knowing that if he hesitated he was lost, Rob set foot upon the narrow path that ran along the smooth edge of rock, and never looking down for fear of turning giddy, he wormed his way upwards, feeling every foot of the slippery surface.

A sudden silence fell upon the onlookers below, and then a harsh noise of voices reached him, and a moment later a stone crashed on the rock within a foot of his head.

"Haud tight, Rob," shouted Muckle John; "dinna mind them!" and whipping out his pistol he fired, shattering the arm of another man who was poised for his aim.

Had any one of them there carried a musket, Rob would have been shot like a crow, but as Muckle John shrewdly guessed, no one of that ragged crew had more than cold steel, though that was ready should the boy falter and fall.

But creeping onward he reached the place where the empty space lay, and without a pause he stepped across, regained his balance and disappeared round the corner. At that a great yell of anger broke out, and a sudden rush was made for the lowest rock, upon which half a dozen men climbed and thence swarmed up within three feet of where Muckle John stood, awaiting them.

At that he swung down upon them, and laying about him with his claymore, cleared the stone and stood looking upon the crowd of his enemies with great good-humour. Growling sullen threats, they fell back out of reach of his deadly sword, and so, setting his back against the crag, he drew out his whistle and, placing the hilt of his claymore between his legs, he broke into a Highland rant.

Now the story of that tune was one peculiarly obnoxious to the men below, for it was written to commemorate a great clan battle, in which the people of the West had not covered their name with glory. He played it with grim relish, giving it such a sprightly measure, that every note seemed a jeer and a bitter gibe at their kith and kin.

Indeed, so engrossed did he grow with his melody, that he did not notice a man to his left pick up a great stone, and launch it like a flash upon him. Moreover, it was aimed with a deadly purpose, for it took the claymore on the blade and sent it spinning over the edge upon the earth below.

With a cry Muckle John leaped for the cleft. The men below, with a wild shout, swarmed up like hungry wolves upon the place he had abandoned.

And then drawing his pistol and dirk, he fell upon his knees like a wild-cat defending its lair with tooth and claw, and sent the first man hurtling backwards with a bullet in his brain.

"Lochaber pig," he taunted, "it takes a dirk to make you squeal."

"Man without a tartan," they screamed back in Gaelic, "landless—nameless one..."

"No name is better than a Lochaber name," he cried with a laugh, driving them back for the third time.

But his position was desperate, for the long blades of his assailants could reach him before he could reload, and his dirk was useless except at close quarters.

Now beside him there was a rugged boulder of about three feet in diameter, and no sooner had his eye rested on that, than he bent his long arms around it, and pushing it to the edge rolled it over upon the jeering faces within a few feet of his own, and without watching the panic that it caused, he sprang upon the narrow cleft and began to pass along the road that Rob had gone before.

But now things were very different. Below him, a dozen men had stones in their hands—behind him, those who had the courage were already mounting the dead-strewn rock to follow him.

There was for all that a mocking twinkle in Muckle John's eyes, and he whistled a bar of the tune he had played, and so, walking steadily onward, reached the empty space. It was that critical moment that they had selected for their volley of stones, and indeed it would have gone ill with anyone knocked off his balance at such a time.

But this Muckle John realized as much as they, and out of the corner of his eye he had gauged their scheme to a nicety. He made a step forward, therefore, and a very quick fling back, which few could do where there was not room for the feet to stand, ankle to ankle. And as the stones rattled upon the face of the rock instead of his own, he crossed very coolly and passed on.

Foiled in that plan, they took to aiming at him indiscriminately, and the dull thud upon his side and legs reached Rob up above. Soon a stone cut his face, and he must needs wipe the blood out of his eyes to see his way, which delayed him and brought his pursuers (the few who dared) the nearer.

But he crept on, nevertheless, and at last reached Rob, and supported himself by the little broken tree.

"Oh, Rob, Rob," he gasped, "I nearly spoilt all. Follow me, for they'll turn the corner in a minute. Once let us get back to the top, Rob, and there's no going back," and he looked down upon the heads of their pursuers with a meaning smile.

The last five yards were as hazardous as the rest, and more than once Rob gave himself up for lost. But each time Muckle John steadied him and jested, and whistled a snatch of tune.

At last they scrambled upon level ground, and lay with bleeding fingers and knees and all the strength gone out of them.

Some minutes passed, and from below came the faint shuffling of footsteps. With a groan Rob struggled up and peered over. A dreadful sight faced him. About twenty yards beneath, where one man was forced to climb upon the other's shoulders, the foothold had failed, and after a momentary, fluttering grasp at the thin grass that grew in patches here and there, a mournful cry went up, and the two bodies slid and tumbled and sped out of sight.

"They're killed!" cried Rob.

Muckle John rose stiffly to his feet.

"I said there were but two who knew the way," he replied, "and one is mysel'," and he stretched himself and began to walk up the slope of the hill.

"Come, Rob," said he, over his shoulder, "they'll be after us now, but we have two hours' start, which, saving the English, should prove sufficient."

Then quite suddenly he stopped in his tracks, and stared with a frown upon the glen below. Drawing Rob forward, he pointed downwards, saying no word.

And Rob said nothing either; there was nothing to say.

All along the valley and up into the hills beyond were scattered tiny white tents, and little figures in red coats moved hither and thither like ants in an open space amongst the heather, while the sun shone and glinted on white flickers of steel.

CHAPTER IX
THE TURN OF THE SCALES

"Rob," said Muckle John, "this is a nice business, for here we are with the wild Cameron country and Arkaig safely behind us, and within a few steps of Glengarry's land, for which we have been struggling for the last four hours and more."

To the south-east of them was Glen-Pean and Glen-Kingie stretching out in solitude. But between them and comparative safety lay the sleeping English tents, and nearing them at every moment were the Camerons and Macaulay. Muckle John shook his head gloomily. "We canna go back, Rob, and we canna go forward—at least no until nightfall, and then we're like to meet with a bullet."

He lay upon the ground, and chewed a piece of grass, eyeing the English tents with a frown.

"We're as good as lost," said Rob hopelessly.

"Man Rob," replied Muckle John grimly, "ye possess a rare discernment."

With a sigh Rob let him be, and took to thinking about his own desperate affairs. Twice during the past twelve hours he had been on the point of destroying the paper and each time he was thankful that he had waited. But now they were as good as lost. Captured either by the English or by Macaulay they were doomed for a quick death, and the dispatch would prove a great piece of treasure-trove for either—the map that would show the way to Prince Charlie's gold, with which he could buy ten thousand men to his standard. At least that was how Rob looked at it, and some would say there was some truth in what he believed.

It was the thought of the money falling into such hands that determined him to destroy the map. He stole a glance at Muckle John, but his eyes were fixed steadily on vacancy. Then slipping away, he leaned with his back against a rock, and drew the envelope cautiously from the side of his brogue, where he had concealed it.

It was sealed and addressed to the Prince. Rob had hardly time to glance at it, however, before a warning call from Muckle John made him spring to his feet, the paper still in his hand.

"See, Rob," cried he, but eyeing the piece of paper keenly, "here comes Macaulay from the west, so we must decide on the instant. Once and for the last time, hae ye onything that I can tak' charge of, for it's you they'll search, no me."

Rob felt himself weakening, but again his promise to Cameron withheld him.

"No," he cried, and made as though to tear the paper in two.

"You doited fool!" screamed Muckle John, rushing at his hands.

Rob with quick alarm leaped aside, and the big man tripped and floundered along the ground. What was he to do? But of a sudden he stood still. Why should he doubt Muckle John?

"I've taken your advice," he said, and showed the piece of paper in his hand.

"It's only what seems reasonable," replied Muckle John. "Now put it by, for it's neck or nothing for us, Rob."

"Have you a plan?" asked the boy, with his eyes on the white tents and his heart in a sad state of fright.

"A sort of a plan," he replied, and started at a run rewards the English.

Without a word Rob followed him. There was no time to question such a course, and already Macaulay was within a mile of them. But when he saw them heading for the tents in the glen below he paused, as well he might, for the sight of two Jacobite rebels scampering towards an English camp was sufficiently arresting.

The Highlanders with him, who had no wish for nearer acquaintance with red-coated soldiery, slackened their pace too, and, dropping below the sky-line, became invisible in the heather.

On ran Muckle John, and behind him Rob, until an English sentinel raised his musket and called to them to halt. The boy glanced anxiously at his companion's face. But he gathered nothing there. There was certainly no sign of fear.

"Who goes there?" cried the sentry.

Quite quietly Muckle John thrust a hand into his great-coat pocket.

"Here is my passport," he replied, "and this is my guide. I am Captain Strange, on special duty in the west," and he handed over a document to the man, who read it slowly, and then saluting, stood at attention until they had passed.

When they were about twenty yards distant, however, Muckle John spoke in a low voice to Rob.

"Look up the hill," he said, "and tell me if Macaulay is coming down."

But there was no one to be seen, and on learning that, Muckle John gave a great sigh as though he were vastly relieved.

They neared the tents and were walking on, when an officer rose to his feet and stopped them.

"Who are you?" he asked, "and what kind of Highland wild-cat is that?" pointing with the end of his sword at Rob.

"I am Captain Strange," said Muckle John.

"Strange," echoed the man, who seemed a good-humoured fellow, greatly bored with sitting among the hills. "Oh yes, I ken ye by name, and I am Captain Campbell, at your service. Come and have a crack inside," and he made to enter his tent.

With a momentary hesitation Muckle John followed him, but first of all he took one swift sweeping glance over his shoulder at the hillside.

Then, seating himself within, he fell into conversation, while Rob waited outside the tent, watching the soldiers standing at their posts, or marching up and down amongst the heather.

All the time a curious presentiment of fear grew heavy upon him, which the silent day only intensified.

"I take it you were at Culloden," said Captain Campbell; "that must have been a poorlike affair."

"None so poor," said Muckle John; "where there are starving men and bickering chiefs you don't look for much resistance, but they broke two lines, sir."

"Did they so? It is evident the Argyll men were not in prominence."

"No," replied Muckle John drily, "the Campbells were employed in pulling down walls."

The other eyed him uncertainly. He felt the sting under his words.

"If the business had been left to the Duke," said he, "there would have been no call for levies from the Low Country."

"If it had been left to the Duke," replied Muckle John, "every clan in the north would have made havoc of Argyll."

"You speak strangely, sir—I take it you mean no offence to the Clan Campbell?"

"I," echoed Muckle John, "what have I against them? I am a Lowlander, as my name tells ye; we canna all be born across the Highland line."

"Well, well, Captain Strange, there are braw men on both sides; I take it you are on the trail of the rebel leaders?"

"And who else? But I would as wittingly trap foxes in Badenoch; they disappear like peat reek on a summer's night."

Captain Campbell nodded his head, and taking out a dispatch from his pocket, he drew his stool a shade nearer.

"You come at an opportune time," he said, "for here is a dispatch in which your name appears, and certain secret information is contained for transmission to you."

"Indeed, sir," said Muckle John, all attention.

"It has reached the knowledge of the Duke of Cumberland that certain rebels are concealed about the shores of Arkaig, and amongst them Lord Lovat, who has fled in that direction from Gortuleg House. Two days after Culloden, a party of dragoons surrounded the latter place, but he had gone, carrying his papers with him. He is an old man, and should not evade capture long. The Duke places the utmost importance on his capture. If Lovat is taken, he is assured all further trouble will simmer out. As long as Lovat lives he will counsel resistance, and that may mean months of service in the hills."

"Are any others mentioned?"

"It is stated that French gold has been landed at a place near Arkaig, and here is a warrant to arrest two rebels who have knowledge of it—one is a boy, Rob Fraser by name, who is acquainted with the hiding-place of Lord Lovat, and the other is—who do you think?"

"Who indeed, sir? Lochiel—Cluny...?"

"No, no, who but Muckle John, the most dangerous of them all when mischief is afoot."

"Muckle John? But is he not abroad?"

"Abroad—who ever heard of him abroad when there is a head to crack at home? They say he is wanted on a charge in the Low Countries."

"A dangerous fellow," said Muckle John severely, "and yet there's a kind of quality about the man—a bird of passage, Captain Campbell, and a bonny player on the chanter."

"More a gallows-bird than any other. He'll whistle a thin enough tune when the Duke has finished with him. He lays great stress on his taking, I can tell ye. He can spin a yarn, Captain Strange, that will be worth hearing, I'll be bound. He and that boy, Rob Fraser, are in company, as desperate a pair as ever skulk in the heather this day."

"I take it there is no saying where they lie?"

The other winked very slyly at that.

"The net is closing," he said, "and once the boy is caught, there is small chance of the other going loose."

In the meantime, Rob was outside, and he wished Muckle John would come. Before them was a weary tramp, and already he was tired. His eyes shut for a moment—then opened and shut again. He took to thinking of his father, and how it fared with Lord Lovat, and so thinking he fell asleep.

His awakening was rude enough, for before he could open his eyes his arms were held behind his back, and he was hoisted roughly to his feet. The officer, good-humoured no longer, was facing him, while half a dozen red-coats shut him off from all chance of escape.

And before him stood Ephraim Macaulay.

"Which of you is Captain Strange?" cried Captain Campbell, very red in the face, and looking back towards his tent as though he awaited an indignant reply from within.

"I am Captain Strange," replied Macaulay stiffly.

"Then where are your papers?"

"They were stolen by the man who came with his boy, who was sleeping outside your tent."

"Be careful of your words, sir. How am I to know that you are what you say?"

"Perhaps you did not trouble to read the particulars on the passport?"

"No, sir—I admit that I did not."

"Then if you had you would have realized that I am not six foot two or thereabouts, or travel with a notorious rebel, such as that boy there. Also that my name is not—Muckle John."

"MUCKLE JOHN!" shouted the officer, "if what you say is true," he cried, and breaking off he started running towards the tent and peered within, then parting the folds, disappeared altogether. But an instant later, he was tearing about the camp like a man gone mad.

"He's made off!" he shouted. "Sound the bugle there, and search the hills!" Then plunging into his tent again, he reappeared with his hat in his hand.

For Muckle John had taken his departure, leaving behind him only a neat hole in the canvas of the tent, on the side farthest from the real Captain Strange, whose reputation as a secret agent in the English service did not warrant for his future safety. For long the soldiers searched, but no sign of Muckle John was discovered, and none had seen him go.

To Rob, however, this was poor comfort, for bound hand and foot and guarded by two soldiers he passed a miserable night, and when morning came he was set between a file of soldiers, and the march to Fort Augustus commenced, where it was rumoured that the Duke of Cumberland would arrive that day.

It was not till mid-day that his hands were loosed, and then, very cautiously, he searched for the precious paper, knowing that the time for its destruction was come.

His fingers ran cautiously down the side of his brogue. He did so lying on his side, and his legs tucked up under his kilt.

But all in vain, for the paper was gone.

CHAPTER X
THE LAST FLICKER

It is an error to suppose that the Jacobites were ready to surrender all hope of resistance without a last bid for terms, if not for victory. Culloden was lost, but a large body of the clans had not come up in time to engage in the battle. An ignominious flight spelt utter ruin to the chiefs and unquestioned submission to the Government, whereas a stand in the hills was eminently suited to Highland warfare. Cavalry were useless in rough country and southern soldiers easily outwitted and confused.

Had Prince Charles not lost his head in the debacle of Culloden he might have remained King of the Highlands if not of Scotland itself.

Unfortunately, the strength of the Jacobite army was also its greatest weakness. Quick to mobilize and equipped by centuries of warfare for the field, they were also unaccustomed to a prolonged campaign. The quick fight and the swift retreat, the raid by night and the tireless pursuit were their notion of war. They cared little enough for the rights or wrongs of a quarrel so long as they could kill a man or two, and make home again with a few head of cattle.

For this reason the delay and confusion following hard upon Culloden played havoc with the Jacobite army. Once their faces were set homewards no power on earth could stop the clans. They were weary of campaigning on scanty fare and small pay. A few short days and the Children of the Mist were gathered into their own mountains and the army had melted into a few scattered remnants waiting for a leader. On the shores of Arkaig a few futile conferences took place, and then followed hard the inevitable dispersion.

Lord Lovat, on whom the chiefs still laid a certain trust, was carried to Muirlaggan, where Lochiel, Glenbucket, Murray of Broughton and others awaited him.

They rose as he was carried into their midst, moved by a kind of reverence for infirm old age.

Murray of Broughton shivering with illness, with flickering agitated eyes, stood tapping with his fingers upon the rough table. He knew Lovat of old, and had suffered at his hands; Lochiel, pale from his wound, looked liked a man more heart-broken than anxious. Of all the Jacobite leaders he was the great gentleman and one whose life and motives were of the purest.

Lord Lovat was perfectly at his ease. He took the head of the table without question, scrutinizing each face from under his shaggy brows unconquered as ever.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I take it ye have not accepted Culloden day as your coup de grâce?"

Lochiel shook his head.

"No, no," he said vacantly, "it is our poor people that we are minded of," at which Murray nodded, avoiding Lovat's stony stare.

"I too, have a clan," said the old man sombrely, "I have never forgotten that. There is also my son."

They had in common courtesy to acknowledge that he was as deeply involved as any.

"It is our duty to prevent Cumberland taking a ruthless vengeance on our people," he continued; "rather than leave them to Hanoverian justice, we should be prepared to die sword in hand."

Murray of Broughton stirred uneasily.

"I fear your lordship does not know how scattered our forces are—the Prince flying for his life—the clans unwilling to mobilize again."

Very slowly Lovat raised his face, and stared Murray down. Then turning to Lochiel he said: "Is that not true?" as though the Prince's secretary had not spoken at all.

"I am ready to sacrifice everything if we can make a stand," replied the chief of the Camerons simply.

"I think your lordship did not catch my meaning," broke in Murray in a fluster.

"I think," corrected Lovat with composure, "I caught it finely."

"Your lordship's pardon if I seem to take a liberty," said Roy Stuart, "but what can we do more than we have done during the last few months? We have been promised French aid—none has come. We have looked for French gold—there has been little enough of that. The English Jacobites have lain like rats in a hole."

"And we—those of us who can run," retorted Lovat, "are like rats without a hole. There are occasions, Mr. Stuart, when even rats can face the cat—and rout him too."

"The Prince has ordered us to disperse," bleated Murray in a flutter of nerves and tepid anger.

"The Prince," barked Lovat, "gave his last order on Culloden Moor. We are done with princes and Irishmen and grand French promises; we are men with everything to lose and something to gain. Maybe your profession, Mr. Murray, or is it your Lowland blood, has made you unacquainted with the lengths that despair may drive a man."

"You are pleased to sneer, sir," blurted out Murray.

"I trust," replied Lovat, in a melancholy undertone, "you may never have a chance to repay the compliment."

"Come, come," broke in Lochiel, "this is no time for contentions. If it is decided that we shall raise the clans we must make speed. I take it that we are of one mind upon that?"

Lovat nodded his head before any could speak.

"Could we but raise a few thousand men," he said, "and we shall show the Duke what Highland warfare may mean. Let us meet again in ten days' time each with his people. Send out the summons, Lochiel. Let the Prince take ship to France if he will—so long as we do not betray each other" (and here he looked hard at Murray) "we are as safe as wild-cats in Argyll."

There was a loud murmur of approval from those about him. Now, as always, Lovat had carried the day. He had come, an old sick man, coughing in his litter, facing a dozen men fairly eaten up with fear and perplexity. In one short hour he had them at his heel. With a body as sound as his mind he would have raised the Highlands himself.

Still Murray of Broughton, that creaking door, must have his word. It was more his habit of mind than any real evil in the man. He was the soul of method, and concise as the Lord President himself. Perhaps he suspected Lovat, as Lovat in all sincerity suspected him. Perhaps he was influenced by such reason as he possessed. It may be that he foresaw what was ordained, and knew Lovat for what he was.

"My lord," he said in his hesitating voice, "I have little influence here—I have no people to consider—I am not a soldier, only a man of business who has tried to serve the cause."

They waited while Lovat watched him as a snake watches a rabbit.

"Supposing, my lord, that the clans are persuaded to rise again, what kind of campaign can you carry on? Where can you obtain your supplies, your ammunition, or money to pay our troops? Already the coast is patrolled—the Highlands surrounded and the roads to the south cut off—what kind of mercy will the isolated places receive—the very places where you hope to obtain provisions? They will so harry the country, my lord, to starve you out that the very sight of women and children coming to you in the direst starvation will make you regret this step. It is starvation, and not defeat, will give you your answer, my lord."

"There's truth in what he says," murmured a man behind Lochiel.

"Mr. Murray," said Lovat, "I doubt not you speak with sincerity, but this is a matter on which we must take our own counsel. Look to your own safety, Mr. Murray, and no gentleman here will say you acted unbecomingly."

It had become a contest between these two—Lovat forcing the pace to save his neck, and Murray, knowing what was behind it all, struggling, who can say why, to dissuade them from further bloodshed.

He moistened his lips and played his last card.

"As you will, gentlemen," he said suavely, "It is for you to decide. But as a man of business, since your lordship has discounted any finer qualities in me, might I suggest that perhaps a memorandum of this meeting, a pledge to bind us together, would give adhesion to such a proposal. It is only natural, and in desperate straits where all must live or fall together, a prudent course to take."

Lovat gripped the edge of the table with his hands. This was a blow indeed. His face changed colour. He seemed for a moment to quiver as though he were icy cold, his head commencing to shake from side to side.

"I agree to that entirely," said Lochiel.

"No, no," came from Lovat in a whisper.

Murray watched him with all the relish of a weak man scoring a rare triumph.

"Did your lordship speak?" he asked.

"I did," said Lovat, rising to his strength again, "I see nothing but danger and needless formality in such proceedings. We are not men of business, Mr. Murray—we are Highland gentlemen."

It was a bold throw, but it won the hearts of many there, who hated Murray and his fiddling Lowland ways. Only Lochiel said nothing, swayed two ways at once, and ready to faint with the pain of his wound.

"I think," broke in Roy Stuart, "we should defer signing until we meet again."

"Bravely spoken," remarked Lovat, "let us meet with our men in ten days' time. I can promise three hundred Frasers, if not more."

They all rose at that and conferred together before parting, each one promising a regiment, and that word should go through the hills.

Only Murray stood alone, and only Murray saw a man enter with a package and hand it to Lovat. He watched the old man open it—he noted how he started and frowned. More than that, he read the sudden terror in his face.

"Bring that man back!" cried the Fraser, but none heard him (save Murray), and when he learned at last that the messenger was nowhere to be found he groaned and a kind of despair settled upon his face like a mask.

But the thing that puzzled Murray was the nature of the package. For it held no paper (that he could see) but only a strip of Fraser tartan, and that very stained in one corner like the discoloration of blood.

CHAPTER XI
A NARROW ESCAPE

Now when Muckle John had heard the voice of Macaulay—or, to give him his real name, Captain Strange—approaching the tent, he had moved ever so slightly backward and loosened his dirk. The inevitable had happened, and he had played with fire too long. And so, when the officer hurried out to meet the new arrival, he did a number of things very quickly.

But the first was the cutting of the canvas farthest from the entrance. Then with a dive he was through, and with the tent between him and his enemies.

To the right of him, about a hundred yards distant, was a sentry, standing with his back turned, looking towards the hill opposite. On his left again were a group of red-coats off duty and playing cards.

To cross the open space and reach the slope unseen would seem impossible, and yet Muckle John did it, and what is more, took two hours about it, which in a period of acute danger might seem leisurely travelling.

What his quick eyes fell upon first was a horse grazing thirty yards away. But that he put out of his mind as too hazardous a risk. About half that distance away, however, a tussock of hay was lying—a loosely bound pile about eight feet long and four broad.

When Muckle John saw that he breathed again, and taking off his hat, he hurled it in the direction of the hay, then waited patiently. Fortunately, no one saw it skim into the air and drop upon the ground.

By this time Strange had roused the officer's indignation and then his alarm. He did exactly what any ordinary man would have done in the circumstances. He dashed into the tent—he saw the tear and peered quickly through it. But Muckle John was round the flap and unseen. Then, realizing that his late guest had bolted, he darted through the door of the tent again, and bawled the order to arms.

At that Muckle John moved like lightning. He did not dash for the tussock of hay; he knew that such an obvious place of refuge would attract them first. He quite softly re-entered the tent through the slit, and, crawling under the bedding on the floor, he watched the scurrying soldiers outside with keen and calculating eyes.

Half a dozen, headed by Campbell, charged the hay and turned it over and over. Then Strange, not satisfied with that, drove his sword into the midst of it, and poked and jabbed with extraordinary determination, at which Muckle John smiled and lay still. He had not to wait long, however, for the inevitable discovery of his hat sent them post-haste towards the heather and the rough country beyond, and saved a closer search nearer home, which was just what Muckle John had feared and planned to prevent.

Away went the soldiers with Strange and the little red-faced officer, and the camp, saving the sentries, was clear.

So the first onward move commenced. With a spring, Muckle John was through the slit, and darting over the intervening space, he reached the mangled tussock of hay and crawled beneath it. A rope bound it loosely together. Slipping between this and the hay, and trusting to luck that his boots were hid, he began to move in inches over the ground.

By the time the first soldiers passed wearily and footsore into camp, too hot and tired for further searching, he had covered twenty yards.

After them came Strange and the officer, deep in talk. They tramped past and all was quiet again. And then, to his profound dismay, two soldiers, late-comers from the pursuit, sank down upon the hay, and prepared to rest themselves.

"Uncommon 'ard this 'ay," said one of them.

"That it be, Silas—but likewise uncommon soft after 'eather," and one of them yawned and loosened his jacket.

"What wilt do with the youngster, think ye?" asked one.

"Shoot 'im at Fort Augustus," replied the other. "Heard Captain say as 'ow we march there to-morrow. Seems cruel t'shoot a mere shaver, Silas."

"It's not as if 'e was a Christian, belike, but only an 'Ighlander," replied Silas.

"That be so," answered the other, apparently reassured.

To Muckle John the information was of interest. But for the moment he was more anxious about the future.

Fortunately, the short afternoon was closing in, and a cold spring wind came blowing off the snow-topped hills. It set the soldiers shivering and stumbling camp wards. It also set Muckle John free and travelling slowly towards the rough land at the foot of the slope.

And then he thrust his head through the hay, like a tortoise out of its shell, and looked about him.

To his right stood a sentry, apparently dozing, To his left, another sentry, but marching to and fro to keep warm. Very patiently Muckle John waited for several things to happen. It was inevitable that darkness would fall soon, and that meant safety. It was also very probable that the increasing cold would send both sentries tramping up and down, and in that lay a chance to escape into the heather unseen.

But against these two probabilities was the stern fact that horses need fodder, and that every minute brought the search for the tussock of hay nearer.

Had Muckle John been the kind of man who, having exercised a maximum of caution, takes a minimum of risk through a very proper spirit, he would have made a run for it, and dodging the sentries' bullets, trusted to the twilight to cover his flight.

But Muckle John had a certain pride in these episodes. He liked to complete a piece of work like this—to leave at his own good pleasure; above all, not to give his enemies the empty satisfaction of knowing just how he had managed it. At that moment the sentry who dozed dropped his musket, and, hastily picking it up, tramped heavily up and down like his companion. There was just a space of five seconds exactly when both their heads were turned away from him.

Five times Muckle John tested it, leaving half a second for accidents and the half-turns at the corners.

Then drawing himself clear of the hay, he waited, crouching on his hands and knees. At last with a spring, he cleared the danger-spot, and was flat with the heather when the sentries turned again.

The next five seconds saw him thirty yards away, the next another forty, and then he fell to running with bent back—a shadow among shadows, until he was gathered into the darkness and was seen no more.

It was on the evening of the next day that Muckle John, travelling all night and resting by day, reached Inverness, and, muffling up his face, trod through the silent town and knocked at the door of Miss Macpherson. Inside all was utterly quiet, and for a moment he feared that she had gone.

But very slowly the door opened, and a pair of keen eyes looked into his face, while a nose like an eagle's beak was thrust forward as though on the point of striking.

"Wha's there?" she cried.

"Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John; "let me in, for I am spent, and this is no the place to exchange pleasantries..."

"Pleasantries indeed," she snorted. "Nothing was farther frae my mind," but she let him in for all that, and bolted the door.

Then, raising the rush-light, she stared into his face.

"Oh!" she cried, "and I thought so. Good evening, Mr. Muckle John, though no sae muckle in spirit as when last we met."

"No, madam—ye say true," he replied frowning at the fire-light.

"Tell me," said she, "before we go farther—what of Rob, the obstinate, dour body?"

Muckle John shifted his eyes.

"Maybe he's no been as fortunate as we could have wished," he said, slowly shaking his head.

"Dinna clash words wi' me!" she screamed. "Oot with it, ye Hieland cateran—what o' Rob—where is he—is he in prison?"

"No, no," cried Muckle John, "though maybe no so far off, either."

The hawk eyes were now fixed fiercely on him.

"What did ye come here for?" she cried. "What has kept your feet hammering the road for hours past? Was it just for the pleasure o' a crack wi' me? Oh, no, my man, there's a bonny tale behind your face," and she sat herself down, her chin resting on her hand.

With a shrug Muckle John told of the flight from Culloden (saying nothing of his part that day), and of the meeting on the shore of Arkaig, and the taking of Rob.

"He is meddling in business that I canna control," he said finally, "and so he's bound for Fort Augustus, and out of it he must come or my name's no Muckle John."

"Which is probably true," sniffed Miss Macpherson, "and no sae comforting as maybe ye intended."

He gloomed at her a moment without speaking.

"Mistress Macpherson," he said at last, "listen to me. When Rob is brought up in Fort Augustus, your friend Ephraim Macaulay, whose real name is Captain Strange and a notorious spy, will seek to prove that he was in arms at Culloden. They must prove that, to put the fear of death on him for reasons best left unsaid. Who will know Rob better than yersel', and who will come to the mind of Strange mair clearly? Should he be asked to travel south, be prepared in advance, for it rests wi' you whether Rob goes free or not."

"I always suspected yon Macaulay," remarked Miss Macpherson, "and his Scots was no what I call sound Edinburgh."

"He has muckle strings to his bow, and who can say what arrow may bring doon Rob? But when the message comes, Mistress Macpherson, dinna deny that ye ken Rob, for that will prove his guilt at once, for ithers can be found who will jump at the chance o' pleasing Strange. Mak' a lot of him, and when ye say good-bye to him in his cell, hand the man on guard a piece of siller, and shut the door. There is one I ken in the fort will be glad to do me a favour, and he will put Rob in one of the rooms overlooking the outer court."

"Go on, my man," said she; "I'm no slow in the uptak."

With a reddened face, Muckle John unloosened his jacket.

"Here," said he, "are one or two things that may serve our purpose," and he showed her a coil of slender rope, a file, a pistol, and a skian-dhu.

"They're a bonny lot," said she, "but I'm no just catching their connexion wi' mysel'."

"Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John, growing still redder in the face, "if ye could see your way to coiling this rope about your waist and concealing the other things, I think Rob is as good as safe."

For long she sat silent.

"Sir," she said, "I believe you are an honest man, though I was positive ye were a rogue until this very minute."

The face of Muckle John was, for once, a medley of expressions, with that of irritation uppermost.

"I hope so," he replied shortly, "but I'm no perfect, ye ken."

"Why do ye want Rob out so much? He is no kin o' yours?"

He uttered an exclamation of impatience.

"What matter," he cried irritably. "Should I save his neck, is not that enough? Maybe I have an affection for the boy. Maybe it is because we are fellow-sufferers in the Cause."

"And maybe," broke in Miss Macpherson, "it is none of these good reasons at all."

To which he answered nothing, but seemed on the point of bursting into a violent rage, and then he fell back on silence, as though he were bitterly offended.

"Mistress Macpherson," he said stiffly, "one thing I can swear to, and that is that I mean Rob no ill; and this I promise you: that if you do as I ask, I will answer for his ultimate escape and safety," and, whipping out his bared dirk, he prepared to take the oath.

"Whisht," said Miss Macpherson, "dinna behave like a play-actor; I'll do what you want, and gladly, for his mither's sake, puir woman. But ye said there is an outer courtyard. How will Rob manage to get over that?"

"He will not need to do so," said Muckle John, and rose to his feet.

Footsteps suddenly sounded on the street without. A loud knock came at the door—then another, and the noise of a horse's impatient hoofs thumped and clattered on the cobbles.

Like a vast shadow, Muckle John passed silently inside the other room, while Miss Macpherson drew back the bolts.

In the street was a trooper, holding a package in his hand.

"For Mistress Macpherson," said he, "from Captain Strange, now stationed at Fort Augustus," and, mounting again, he walked slowly up the street.

Inside, she tore open the paper. It requested her to travel to Fort Augustus at dawn.

Muckle John read what it was at a glance.

Then, gathering up his coat, he bowed, and, meeting her eyes for a moment, passed into the darkness of the street and was gone.

CHAPTER XII
IN THE HANDS OF THE DUKE

To Rob the world had suddenly fallen very hopeless and forlorn. By no conspiracy of Fate could matters have worked out more to his undoing. The precious paper entrusted to him by Dr. Cameron, full of he knew not what vital news and directions regarding the hidden treasure, had been stolen, but worse still by an unknown hand. It is comforting in a dreary way to know who has played the thief. But Rob had not even that poor satisfaction.

He had been taken asleep, and between that time and the journey to Fort Augustus the paper had mysteriously vanished. A horrible thought presented itself. Was it taken from him before he was bound by the soldiers? Muckle John had disappeared without a word or an effort to save him. He had half-heartedly hoped for a rescue on the road, but no sign of living soul had met his eyes.

And at last, at sunset, they had reached the Fort, and he was conducted to a guard-room and there left to his own thoughts.

Suddenly the door opened softly and the angular form of Captain Strange slid into the room. Rob started to his feet and waited in silence for him to speak.

But that Strange seemed in no hurry to do. Instead, he took to walking slowly up and down the room with his hands coiled behind his back and his chin sunk upon his chest.

Then, "Rob," said he, "what did I tell ye in Inverness?"

To which he received no reply. Rob had the rare gift of silence.

"Did I no tell ye that a gibbet was like enough to watch your capers before very long? Maybe ye've no seen a man hanged by the neck, Rob. It's no a bonny sight, say what you will; and in my way of thinking, no a pleasant prospect for onybody, least of all for a lad of spirit like yersel', Rob, for I'll no deny I admire your pluck," and he breathed heavily and stared out of the window.

"Did you come to talk about hanging?" asked Rob, struggling to speak with composure.

"In passing, Rob—merely in passing. It is a subject that fascinates me, I'll no deny. Come here a minute; ye can see the hanging-tree against the sky-line. It's a rare poseetion, Rob—there'll be nane will pass this way but will ask 'Who's dangling there?' and they'll learn it was Rob Fraser, executed for meddling with what didna concern him. It's a braw fool ye'll look, then, Rob—no great rebel dying for his principles, but just a silly laddie who ran a big risk for other people's dirty profit."

"You can call it what you will," cried Rob, stung to anger, and paused.

"Say your say, Rob; dinna be afraid," encouraged Strange softly.

Rob shut his lips seeing there was a trap being laid for him.

Perceiving that he would not speak, the other frowned a moment, then with an appearance of kindly sympathy he patted him upon the shoulder.

"Forget my foolish havers," he said. "I was only warning you for your ain good, for it's a dangerous game you're playing, Rob, and a game that you are playing in the dark. Will ye hear me out and say if what I'm telling ye is no true," and he drew a stool near to the boy.

"Let me run over your movements for the last week or so," he went on. "After Culloden—and ye mind I did my best to save ye that night in Inverness—you came to Lovat's country, and thence down to Arkaig. There you met Cameron and buried the gold. There also you escaped out of our hands, and I'll grant no so clumsily, though you were not to blame for that. Then, accompanied by the desperate man ye ken as Muckle John, you made to the north and were captured yesterday in Captain Campbell's camp. Now, Rob, is that no the truth?"

"It is," said Rob, "though what you have to say against Muckle John should be kept for his own ear. It is wasted on mine."

"Brawly said, Rob, but what do ye ken o' this Muckle John? However, that can keep. I'd wager ye'd turn white did ye ken who Muckle John really is. But when you left Cameron you had a paper, Rob. Supposing that paper fell into our hands, Rob, or those of the Duke, what would happen, think ye? There would be no gold for your Prince, and from the information in the letter—supposing there should be any, which I am assured there is—there would be such a clearing of Jacobites, including the Pretender, as would end their cause for ever. That is, I repeat, supposing such a paper fell into the hands of the Duke. But there are those, Rob, who are Scotch after all, and no verra partial to such measures. There are mony, Rob, who do nane so badly oot of your Jacobite friends, and it's poor shooting where there's no game," and he smiled very knowingly, baring his teeth like a fox.

Rob was puzzled by the note of suggestion in his speech. Had Strange the map or not? If not, had Muckle John taken it? If Strange had it what was to be gained by such words? Would he not take it to the Duke at once?

He glanced quickly at the man facing him. In his eyes he read avarice, cruelty, and cunning.

"If I hand you the paper," said Rob, "what do you propose to do? Would you give it to the Duke?"

Strange checked a smile.

"That depends," said he, "for between ourselves, where the eagle feeds there's poor pickings for the other birds. The truth is, Rob, there are some things you could tell me, and in return I'd do a deal more for you, for I am no an ungenerous man, and it's a dreary prospect, the gibbet."

"It is all that," rejoined Rob, "but I cannot promise until I hear what you want to know."

"That's mair reasonable, Rob—I knew ye were not the foolish ninny that they took ye for. Now listen, Rob; if you will disclose the hiding-place of Lovat and Archibald Cameron, and help us to lay Muckle John by the heels—in return I will see that you are free this very night, and mair, I will no forget ye when the treasure is come to light o' day."

Rob turned sick at the words, but to learn more he simulated interest and nodded his head doubtfully.

"But the Prince," said he.

"In return for Lovat I will spare the Prince."

"You?"

"Who else, for if you consent none but I will ever see the document and its particulars."

"And you will keep the gold?"

Strange winked at that.

"We two, Rob," said he with a smile.

Then Rob, knowing all and realizing that Muckle John must have the dispatch, rose to his feet.

"Whether I have been a scapegoat or not," he said, "I have only myself to blame; and let me tell you at once, Captain Strange or Macaulay, or whatever your dirty name may be, that nothing can save me from the hangman's noose; neither you with all your promises nor anything else, for I have not the paper you want," and he waited for the storm to burst.

But the smile never died from the other's lips.

"Weel I know that, Rob," said he, "for I have it safe here," and he drew the package, still sealed, from his coat pocket.

With a cry of rage Rob rushed at him, but the chains about his legs tripped him up, and Strange, stepping aside with a snarl, took him by the shoulder and flung him violently to the other end of the room.

"Down!" he cried, "or I will pistol you." In a grim silence he thrust the package back into his pocket.

"Ye see, I hold the cards," he said in a malignant voice. "And now is it to be a dislocated neck and your dead body the prey of corbies—or the salvation of your Prince, a share in the gold, and the taking of Lovat, which is inevitable in any case, and that of Cameron, which is only a question of time? Neither will suffer the extreme penalty, for Lovat is an old man who has sat at home, and Cameron is a doctor and was no at Culloden at all. As for Muckle John, I will tell ye why he made such a lot o' ye."

MUCKLE JOHN

CHAPTER IHOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS

CHAPTER IITHE COMING OF MUCKLE JOHN

CHAPTER IIITHE END OF THE JACOBITE CAUSE

CHAPTER IVFRENCH GOLD

CHAPTER VLOCH ARKAIG

CHAPTER VITHE WATCHERS BY NIGHT

CHAPTER VIIBURIED TREASURE

CHAPTER VIIIFLIGHT

CHAPTER IXTHE TURN OF THE SCALES

CHAPTER XTHE LAST FLICKER

CHAPTER XIA NARROW ESCAPE

CHAPTER XIIIN THE HANDS OF THE DUKE