Fortunately for them, the four men below were hard at it together, whispering in Gaelic, and evidently in high feather over the business ahead, so that they did not hear the moving of the sack. That accomplished, Rob drew Murray to the far corner. "Your horse is below," he said; "drop down and soothe him while I wait in case they come. Give me your sword. Lead him out upon the road and I'll join you there." It was strange to take orders from a boy, but Murray had no option in such circumstances. He was no Highlander and had no foolish pride. Without a word, he slipped into the blackness of the stall, and Rob heard him patting his beast and turning it towards the door. At that same moment however there came a noise at the sack that sent Rob across the floor with the naked sword-blade in his hand. The trap-door lifted very slowly; a hand crept under its ledge and gripped the rough boarding a few inches from Rob. There was not a moment to delay. Falling upon his knees, he lunged into the darkness below. Instantly there rose a most horrible cry, something fell with a dull thud, and the trap-door banged upon the blade shivering it from the hilt downwards. For his folly Rob was defenceless again. But there was far worse to come, for at the noise of that terrible stricken voice there came a wild plunging of a horse outside and the dying thud of feet. Murray of Broughton was gone. Perhaps his beast bolted with terror; perhaps he waited and dreaded that Rob was killed--who can tell? He was of all men least able to endure suspense. At that calamity there came to Rob a wild terror of the place and a panic to be gone. He reached the hole in the corner and dropped down upon the mud below. The fresh rain was blowing in upon his face from the open doorway where Murray had passed. He was out in it with a rush and into the friendly darkness, where he halted. No movement came from the lonely inn--no cries or noise of any kind, only a brooding, death-like quiet as though the place were uninhabited or thronged with ghosts. In a kind of ghastly horror, he hesitated and then stole back, overcome by a curiosity too overwhelming to be crushed. Back he came and peered into the byre. But there was no sound--not even a rat gnawing at the wood. It was cold and forsaken. He crept round the outer wall, safe in the night whatever might occur, and stared at the black door where he had entered at the dusk, seeing no gleaming firelight on the wall. The rain had stopped of a sudden, and a faint glimmer of starlight showed in the doorway black and void. There was no door but only a huddle of stones. Nearer he crept, until at last he could look into the room itself. And at that he took to his heels and ran blindly into the night--anywhere so long as he was well away from that grim and desolate house. For in the room there was no fire, no staircase nor any sign of living soul. Nothing but an empty, roofless ruin under the open sky. CHAPTER XXIV