Lovat's eyes flickered over the strong box and back again. "How did ye know there was treasure?" he said, to make time. "You forgot to shut your window." "You played eavesdropper?" Muckle John sighed. "The hour is late," he replied, meaningly. "I am in your hands," said Lovat. "Then tell me where the gold is to be landed. I could not catch the name of the place." The old man leant forward suddenly. "It is on the coast of Knoidart," he replied. "You swear it?" "Such were the words that Sheridan said." "It sounded unlike Knoidart, but I could not hear." "It was Knoidart." For long Muckle John tried to read truth or lies in his face. But the expression of Lovat was guileless. "If you have lied," said Muckle John at last, "I will hound you down." Lovat gently drew the palms of his hands together. "Why should I lie?" he said. "Then good-bye, my lord, and look to your papers, for to-morrow will bring dragoons and..." "Enough," broke in Lovat, "I am not afraid." He sat perfectly still until Muckle John had gone down the stairs, then with a grim smile he set about sorting his papers. "Knoidart," he chuckled, "it's little gold would remain in Knoidart." Out in the night Muckle John stood deep in thought, then climbing softly over the wall he reached Rob and the great grey horse. "I must leave you for a while, Rob," he whispered, "but I'll return, never fear, and keep watch for the bit tune--ye mind the way it goes--" and he whistled a bar. "Keep on the top of the hills, laddie, but mind the skyline, and never stir by day. It's advice easily given but a weary business to follow," and putting his foot in the stirrup he mounted and walked softly down the glen. A great loneliness stole over Rob, left as he was in a country he hardly knew, and with a throbbing wound, and a keen hunger on him. Stealing round to the house he made his way to the hall, and hearing no sound of human souls anywhere he entered the kitchen and happened upon a plate of cold porridge. This he devoured, and re-entering the hall he lay down before the fire and fell asleep. Upstairs Lovat crouched before the fire. Hour after hour passed and still he spelt out with his tired weak eyes the contents of one sheet upon another. Once he nodded and a letter passed unread--a letter that was to weigh in the scales against him later. For an hour he slept altogether. But as the dawn was creeping back over that stricken country, the day following Culloden found him still bending with a haggard countenance over his correspondence, every letter of which might bring him to the scaffold.