"You are fatter than he and without his spirit of course, but how can the Duke tell that? I have a friend inside the Fort, a Macpherson, third cousin to my mother's step-daughter and a douce quiet man. He would do what he can though he has a sound respect for his neck." "I am with him there," sighed Castleleathers. "I hope, madam, that you propose nothing rash." "My man," she said stoutly, "when my blood's up I stick at nothing, be it Duke or gibbet." After that there fell a most melancholy silence. The major, who had hoped to spend a peaceful old age, and who had stepped like a cat among puddles during the last disturbance, wished Muckle John far enough and Miss Macpherson much farther. The whole heart of the warm fire (and it was a chill day) seemed to have fallen into thin ashes. He shivered dismally and took a dreary relish in praying that he might catch his death of cold. Once he screwed his eye slowly about and let it rest moodily upon Miss Macpherson. But she was absorbed in her scheming, and that is a game that comes painfully to untutored persons. "I see nothing for it," she said at last, "but just to shoot him." "The Duke?" gasped Castleleathers. "Who else--he'd be no loss. There's little of the William Wallace in you, my man." "I am not wanting in personal courage," groaned Castleleathers, "indeed, I have seen service abroad, but this is beneath me, madam--quite beneath me." Miss Macpherson leaped at a grim jest to bring him to his senses. "There'll be nothing beneath ye if you don't," she said swiftly. He recoiled from such a pleasantry. He had always deplored the brutality of utter frankness. "Who knows," he said thoughtfully, "but a little playful threatening might not win our purpose, just a pistol waving carelessly in the hand, and a claymore at the side, the iron hand under the velvet glove, madam--ye take me?" "I'll take ye right enough," said Miss Macpherson, "if Rob's life depends on us two, there'll be no shirking." "If only my heart were in the work," sighed the major pensively, "I would not care a bawbee for the Duke or ony body. Could you not get in touch with Muckle John, the Duke is feared of him belike..." "My man," broke in Miss Macpherson, "you are slow in the uptake, _you_ are to be Muckle John." He raised his head at that in a speechless tragedy of silence. "_Me?_" he whispered. "_Me Muckle John_--oh, what is this nonsense you propose?" "I have not decided upon it at random," she replied, "and it seems practicable. I have some knowledge of the Duke's habits, and let us but once get him alone and we will force him to sign a pardon for Rob. He goes south soon, so we must act at once. You, Castleleathers, must wrap yersel' up in a plaid to your nose and when we find him by himsel' you shall threaten his life." "But you--where will you be?"