"That is Inverlochlarig where Rob Roy died," said Gloom. "I mind him well, a great red man with a heart of gold. But his sons are corbies, and I am hoping we do not meet them." All up the side of the stream the cottages of the Macgregors clustered, with the thin veil of peat reek hanging above them in a kind of haze. Without halting they passed over the flat marshy land that lay between the two ranges of mountain, and approached a small compactly built house upon the other side of the burn. "We will stop here for the night," said Gloom, "and maybe Invernenty will see us. He is no friend of the Macgregors, being son of John Maclaren who was murdered by Robin Oig." Leaving Rob he crossed the narrow stream and knocking upon the door exchanged some words with a woman who opened it. But to all that he said she only shook her head, and he returned somewhat discomfited. "She says that Invernenty is not at home," he said, calling him by the name of his place, "and yet I am doubting her unless he is taken." Without delay they set their camp, and during the day several Macgregors came over and eyed them secretly, red men in a red tartan--querulous, hot-blooded fellows. Rob, ill at ease in a strange country, kept in the background, but in the afternoon seeing a great crowd of them gathered about a place up the glen he accompanied Gloom, being wearied of sitting alone. The Macgregors with a sprinkling of Maclarens were handling a curious smooth stone with holes for a finger and a thumb, and competing with one another in lifting it upon a small rock that stood in close proximity. A tall dark sombre-looking man leaning upon a rude crutch and with a pale harassed face was regarding the scene from a little distance. He was dressed in riding clothes and with a greatcoat buttoned up closely as though he were ill. Rob was on the point of asking who he was when he became aware of the other's close scrutiny. There was something dangerously interested in the manner he stared--taking him in with his dark cunning eyes, measuring his height in his mind--the set of his face, conjuring up every detail circumspectly. "Gloom," said Rob in a whisper, "there's a man up on the brae has a notion who I am." Very casually the gipsy turned about. "Misfortune take it," he murmured, "but it is James More, son of Rob Roy, new come from Culloden. He was wounded, ye mind." Presently without a word or any sign James Macgregor moved painfully away and entered Inverlochlarig. "Come, Rob," said Gloom, "I would not trust that man a foot. He is up to mischief, and it's like enough we were better over Glenbucket than here." Evening drew on, but there was no sign of trouble. At the rising of the moon, however, a tall gaunt woman with a plaid over her head asked for a word with the gipsy. They went apart together and conferred in low tones. And then as silently as she had come the woman vanished into the shadows.