The old man answered nothing. He seemed struck dumb with fear, or rage, or some kindred emotion. "I take it from your little preparations that you know how things stand." "I was looking through some old rubbish," said Lovat more at his ease. "I know what sort of rubbish," replied Muckle John, extracting a letter before the old man could check his hand, "how would this sound, eh? It's no what we might call cordial to Geordie." "I am an old sick man," said Lovat, with a suspicion of whining, "scarce able to read or write. My memory is near gone and my faculties all amiss. What do you want with me? It is late and I have much to do." "Perhaps your lordship will remember Castleleathers, who was once your good friend." "What of him?" "He did me a service abroad. Yesterday I was with him in Inverness. He told me much about you, my lord--and your promises." Lovat shrugged his shoulders. "It is easy to listen to one side of a matter," he replied tartly. "Castleleathers is a fool--I have never suffered fools gladly." "Even you make mistakes sometimes, my lord." The fear of capture took Lovat by the throat. "Aye," he gulped, "but this is no time to quarrel. Let bygones be bygones. I did ye a wrong long since, I'll allow, but surely ye can forgive and forget?" "No," said Muckle John, "I never forgive nor forget." "Then what is it you want--is it my life--there is little enough of that to take--or is it money--I have a few guineas?" "It is none of these. If I wanted your life I would set the red coats on you. But they will need no guidance of mine. I want to know where the gold is to be landed that is coming from France." "Oho," cried Lovat, "so that's how the wind blows, is it?" and he remained deep in thought for a while. "Will you do something if I tell ye?" he asked cunningly. "Maybe and maybe no." Lovat moistened his dry lips. "There are sore times coming," he said in his husky voice, and speaking in Gaelic for the first time, "and I am not what I was. There may be folk who will swear black is black instead of white--you will be taking my meaning? Were I to fall into the hands of the Government it might go badly with me. But there are ways...." "And they?" "I have not taken arms, though my son has. They would never harm him being a mere boy, but they might forgive his old father should he hand him over. It must happen one way or the other. But I cannot lay hands on him. What would you say to that? It is for the boy's good--" "Impossible--you are pleased to insult me." "Then what will you do should I tell you?" "I will not dispatch these letters to the Duke of Newcastle." A sickly grey colour crept into Lovat's cheeks. "You would--you would?" he gasped. "You would play into English hands, you would sell me?" "There was an occasion," said Muckle John, coolly, "when you nearly did the same to me." "Long ago--long ago." "In the year 1728 to be exact."