And then he thrust his head through the hay, like a tortoise out of its shell, and looked about him. To his right stood a sentry, apparently dozing, To his left, another sentry, but marching to and fro to keep warm. Very patiently Muckle John waited for several things to happen. It was inevitable that darkness would fall soon, and that meant safety. It was also very probable that the increasing cold would send both sentries tramping up and down, and in that lay a chance to escape into the heather unseen. But against these two probabilities was the stern fact that horses need fodder, and that every minute brought the search for the tussock of hay nearer. Had Muckle John been the kind of man who, having exercised a maximum of caution, takes a minimum of risk through a very proper spirit, he would have made a run for it, and dodging the sentries' bullets, trusted to the twilight to cover his flight. But Muckle John had a certain pride in these episodes. He liked to complete a piece of work like this--to leave at his own good pleasure; above all, not to give his enemies the empty satisfaction of knowing just how he had managed it. At that moment the sentry who dozed dropped his musket, and, hastily picking it up, tramped heavily up and down like his companion. There was just a space of five seconds exactly when both their heads were turned away from him. Five times Muckle John tested it, leaving half a second for accidents and the half-turns at the corners. Then drawing himself clear of the hay, he waited, crouching on his hands and knees. At last with a spring, he cleared the danger-spot, and was flat with the heather when the sentries turned again. The next five seconds saw him thirty yards away, the next another forty, and then he fell to running with bent back--a shadow among shadows, until he was gathered into the darkness and was seen no more. It was on the evening of the next day that Muckle John, travelling all night and resting by day, reached Inverness, and, muffling up his face, trod through the silent town and knocked at the door of Miss Macpherson. Inside all was utterly quiet, and for a moment he feared that she had gone. But very slowly the door opened, and a pair of keen eyes looked into his face, while a nose like an eagle's beak was thrust forward as though on the point of striking. "Wha's there?" she cried. "Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John; "let me in, for I am spent, and this is no the place to exchange pleasantries..." "Pleasantries indeed," she snorted. "Nothing was farther frae my mind," but she let him in for all that, and bolted the door. Then, raising the rush-light, she stared into his face. "Oh!" she cried, "and I thought so. Good evening, Mr. Muckle John, though no sae muckle in spirit as when last we met." "No, madam--ye say true," he replied frowning at the fire-light. "Tell me," said she, "before we go farther--what of Rob, the obstinate, dour body?" Muckle John shifted his eyes.