Had any one of them there carried a musket, Rob would have been shot like a crow, but as Muckle John shrewdly guessed, no one of that ragged crew had more than cold steel, though that was ready should the boy falter and fall. But creeping onward he reached the place where the empty space lay, and without a pause he stepped across, regained his balance and disappeared round the corner. At that a great yell of anger broke out, and a sudden rush was made for the lowest rock, upon which half a dozen men climbed and thence swarmed up within three feet of where Muckle John stood, awaiting them. At that he swung down upon them, and laying about him with his claymore, cleared the stone and stood looking upon the crowd of his enemies with great good-humour. Growling sullen threats, they fell back out of reach of his deadly sword, and so, setting his back against the crag, he drew out his whistle and, placing the hilt of his claymore between his legs, he broke into a Highland rant. Now the story of that tune was one peculiarly obnoxious to the men below, for it was written to commemorate a great clan battle, in which the people of the West had not covered their name with glory. He played it with grim relish, giving it such a sprightly measure, that every note seemed a jeer and a bitter gibe at their kith and kin. Indeed, so engrossed did he grow with his melody, that he did not notice a man to his left pick up a great stone, and launch it like a flash upon him. Moreover, it was aimed with a deadly purpose, for it took the claymore on the blade and sent it spinning over the edge upon the earth below. With a cry Muckle John leaped for the cleft. The men below, with a wild shout, swarmed up like hungry wolves upon the place he had abandoned. And then drawing his pistol and dirk, he fell upon his knees like a wild-cat defending its lair with tooth and claw, and sent the first man hurtling backwards with a bullet in his brain. "Lochaber pig," he taunted, "it takes a dirk to make you squeal." "Man without a tartan," they screamed back in Gaelic, "landless--nameless one..." "No name is better than a Lochaber name," he cried with a laugh, driving them back for the third time. But his position was desperate, for the long blades of his assailants could reach him before he could reload, and his dirk was useless except at close quarters. Now beside him there was a rugged boulder of about three feet in diameter, and no sooner had his eye rested on that, than he bent his long arms around it, and pushing it to the edge rolled it over upon the jeering faces within a few feet of his own, and without watching the panic that it caused, he sprang upon the narrow cleft and began to pass along the road that Rob had gone before. But now things were very different. Below him, a dozen men had stones in their hands--behind him, those who had the courage were already mounting the dead-strewn rock to follow him.