All around her lay the lifeless stretches of heather and grey crag. Near her side gurgled a little stream passing through the trees and down the vacant, wine-red moor. Behind her the stark, open slope of brae, around her the huddle of lonely hills, and no sound at all. The softest noise, like the rustle of an autumn leaf, made her turn her head. Within a few feet of her, regarding her keenly, stood Muckle John. Where he had come from, and how he had come, she did not attempt to guess. "Well," said he, "and how's Mistress Macpherson the day?" "Finely." "And the little business?" "Is completed." "Good!" he said, and smiled with great good humour. "I handed Rob your letter." "And did he tak' my meaning?" "He said I was to thank ye, and give ye this bit o' paper, which he tore from your message." His mouth tightened suddenly. A slight frown wrinkled his brow, and his eyes flickered quickly upon her, and then to the paper in her hand. Suddenly, as though a nameless fear had gripped him, he glowered at her, and snatched the thing out of her fingers. Then, turning his back, he read it at a glance, and, flinging it upon the ground, burst into a torrent of Gaelic, his face a deep scarlet with fury. His unruffled composure was gone. In its place was the blazing Highland temper. Words poured from his lips, his eyes flashed with impotent rage, his whole body trembled with passion. "Are you ill, sir?" cried Miss Macpherson, fearing he had gone mad. But he only snarled at her. Then, swinging about, he began to stride backwards and forwards between the trees, muttering in low tones, his hands clenched, and his chin upon his chest. After a dozen turns in this fashion he seemed to recollect her presence and, halting a little below her, he raised his gleaming eyes to hers. "Madam," he said, in a trembling, harsh tone, "I would give all I possess that you and your precious nephew had never seen the light of day. Oh--it is too much!" He broke off, kicking savagely at a tuft of grass. "But, sir..." she broke in, for once considerably alarmed. "Don't sir me!" raved Muckle John, snapping her up. "But go, and let me never see your face again!" "But Rob?" "The sly ninny! The whey-faced, ungrateful gowk! Let him go hang for his ain dourness! A pretty fool he has made o' me, madam; and no man nor boy either shall live to fling that in my teeth." With the strength of a sudden terror she caught him by the arm. "What sort of talk is this?" she cried. "Have I no done my share, and sent Rob half-way to his death in order that you may snatch him back? Oh, I said you were no honest man!" "Honest?" he snapped, with a bitter laugh. "Oh, you're right enough there. Heaven preserve me frae being called 'honest,' I'm no shopkeeper, madam." "Ye were anxious enough about Rob's safety last night." Muckle John ceased from glowering at the glen beneath them. "The boy's safety go hang," he retorted. "Did ye think I cared two bawbees for that?"