It fell to Rob to scour the neighbouring country at night for food, and so a week passed peacefully enough, and one evening with a promise of fine weather and a starlit night they prepared to set out again. "Let us make for Loch Carron, Rob," said Muckle John, "the country thereabouts is clear of troops and when we hear news of a French ship in the Sound of Sleat we can go south." "Must we go to France, Muckle John?" "That or Holland, Rob--but only for a while. This will all blow over, and when you have grown a beard, back you will come and none will know ye." "But won't you return too?" "I? That depends, Rob, I doubt but the country will be too quiet for me. The Highlands are no what they were. I mind the day when a gentleman could lift a few head of cattle at his good pleasure. But there'll be little of that soon, Rob, and I was not brought up to trade like a lowland bailie." Somewhat depressed by such a prospect, Muckle John sighed, and so they set out again and reached Glen Affrick before the dawn. There they lay hid under the shelter of a crag until the evening, when they set out as before and two days later halted on the shores of Loch Carron, having encountered no dangers on the road. At the head of the lock was a small, mean-looking inn, and outside, sitting on their haunches, half a dozen rough-looking men--swarthy, black-haired fellows in the Mackenzie tartan. They were chattering together like monkeys as Muckle John and Rob approached, but on seeing them they fell silent and stared at them both with hostile, insolent eyes. There was not a man there who did not think of Culloden the moment he saw them--Muckle John with his limp and Rob with hunted Jacobite written all over him. There was little welcome for strangers in those days when a body of red-coats on the smallest pretext might burn an unoffending village to the ground. But they said nothing, glowering up at them under their shaggy brows. Muckle John took them in at a glance. He read just what was in their minds, and with a quiet good-day he passed them and entered the inn. "Rob," he whispered, "not a move till I tell ye." A haggard old woman was sitting upon a stool before the peats. She raised her eyes and stared at them both for a time without speech--then something in the build of Muckle John set her staring afresh until he bent his head and looked into her lined, yellow face. "Tha sibh an so," she cried huskily, "you here?" "Whisht!" said Muckle John, "how is it with you, Sheen?" She crooned at the name he used. "It is well," she replied, "but what of you--and what is it I can do?" "Tell me, Sheen," said he, "what of this place--is it safe?" She shook her head. "There is death here," she said, "Neil Mackenzie is back from the wars--he is new come from the pursuit of the Prince--you must fly, and the boy with you. Did they see you outside?" He nodded, with his eyes on the door.