With a hoarse yell the dragoons were on them. Two fell to Muckle John, there was a wild clash, and a man beside Rob dropped with a groan. And then came an oppressive weight of horses kicking, plunging, rearing--and a blinding blow flung him unconscious beneath their flying feet. It was well indeed for Rob that death seemed to have snatched him from the cruel hands of his enemies, and the pile of dead and dying about him sheltered his body from the search parties of Hanoverians now busy upon their work of butchery. When at last he opened his eyes and stared about him silence had fallen over the field--a silence infinitely tragic and menacing, pent up with disaster and following retribution. Very slowly facts began to stare him in the face. Even he, inexperienced in the manners of war and defeat as he was, realized with a shudder that if he could not crawl away certain death awaited him as it had met those silent figures all about him. The blow on his head throbbed horribly. He felt sick and weak. At last he made an effort to turn upon his side, and moaned aloud. Then suddenly he clenched his lips, and dropped upon his face, for near at hand he caught the tramp of footsteps, and heard the harsh voices of English soldiery. Nearer they came, until they halted beside him. "None for Master Gibbet 'ere," said one, and a chuckle followed. "You never know," said another, and began dragging the bodies this way and that. A muffled groan came from one of these unfortunates, and a moment later, to Rob's horror, a pistol barked, and the same grim silence fell again. Then a hand gripped him by the arm, and turned him over. To feign death--that old, hazardous device--was Rob's solitary hope. He lay with closed eyes, holding his breath, in an agony of suspense. Second followed second, and no sound reached him. Stealthy footsteps he heard, and a muffled laugh, but nothing to warn him of immediate impending danger. So awful became the mysterious nature of the delay that he could hold out no longer. Breathe he must, or he would burst his lungs. He drew in a long draught of air through his nostrils, and in a flash--before he knew what had happened, he had sneezed. A roar of brutal laughter greeted the penetrating noise, and a voice cried out beside him: "Two to one on the snuff, Jerry; I've won the wager," and he was dragged to his feet. Rob opened his eyes now that the worst was come. He would meet his end as bravely as he could. Four English soldiers were seated upon a pile of dead Highlanders, and another held him by the arm. He saw that there was little chance of mercy written on their brutal faces. Memories of Prestonpans and Falkirk were too sore for that. "Well, my gamecock," said the man who held him, "so you are not so dead after all. What shall it be? A little bullet from a pistol, or a dig with one of your own claymores--more homelike that, eh?"