"We are awaiting news from France," he said, "how can we leave here--they would overtake us." Over the face of the old woman there crept a look of fear. "Hark!" she said, "there are footsteps along the road." They all stood listening intently. Nearer and nearer came the thud of feet. "It is himself," she whispered, "Neil Mackenzie new come from Skye." Muckle John smiled grimly. "From the frying-pan into the fire, Rob," said he, and sat down beside the fire. Out upon the roadway they heard muffled voices and once a man's face looked in at the window-hole and disappeared very sharply. As for Muckle John he appeared greatly interested in the peats upon which he was sitting. Suddenly there appeared in the doorway a man of about fifty, of middle height, but with the broadest shoulders and chest that Rob had ever seen. He was in full Highland dress, with a claymore at his side, and one hand rested on the hilt of it and the other on his hip. His attitude was cool and insolent. His features were broad and coarse and his smooth, clean-shaven face over fat and pink, but there was no denying the spirit of the man. His eyes were full of it--that, and an ugly malice. [Illustration: HE WAS IN FULL HIGHLAND DRESS, WITH A CLAYMORE AT HIS SIDE.] Muckle John glanced at him very casually and fell to examining his finger-nails, while Rob stared at the stranger in open wonder. Behind the man in the doorway there clustered a half-dozen dirty Mackenzies like cattle beasts nosing at a gate. Neil Mackenzie, for he it was, set about ordering a drink for himself and then sitting down upon a stool he stared at Muckle John in the same insolent manner, while into the room trooped the men from the roadside, intent on the sport. They had seen Neil at this game before. He was the rare one to lay a stranger by the heels. "Maybe you've travelled far the day?" he asked in a voice like the bark of a fox. Muckle John looked him over slowly. "Maybe," he replied, and warmed his hands at the peats. Mackenzie stirred upon his stool. "You are not the only one on the road with a hacked ankle to-day," he said. "A hacked ankle," retorted Muckle John, "is mair consoling than a hewn head." So far they had spoken in Scots, but now, as though to let his men hear how the matter went, Mackenzie rose to his feet and swaggering across to Rob gave him a cuff on the head and said: "Whose young bantam are you, lad, and what kind of tartan is that for the Mackenzie country?" Now Rob was not the one to take blows from any one, least of all before a crowd of jeering strangers, and had Muckle John not given him a look there is no saying but that he might have acted rashly. "There are times," answered Muckle John, "when a man is grateful for small mercies." Instantly Mackenzie grew very red and took to breathing quickly, like all Highlanders in a passion. "I seem to know your face," said he, "but I do not know the tartan you wear."