This he addressed to Dr. Archibald Cameron in the Braes of Lochaber, and turning towards the crouching circle in the corner, he called one of them, Donald Grant by name, to him, and instructed him for some time in a very earnest voice. "Listen, Donald," he said, "and let there be no bungling, for I am not minded to be soft-spoken if aught goes wrong. In Lochaber there lies a gentleman by name Archibald Cameron--a brother to Lochiel. He is skulking with Murray of Broughton. I heard so much two days since. Hand him this paper and keep a slow tongue, but if he presses you say you were sent by a laddie--a reddish, blue-eyed Fraser boy, and that maybe he minds the words--'there's a muirfowl snared.' Bring him with you and keep him under close guard until I come back. But before you do that, give this second strip of tartan to John Murray of Broughton, and bid him hand it to Lord Lovat as a warning from one he kens well." With these words he dismissed the man, who slid through the entrance and set out at a slow indefatigable trot for the south. In the same active, masterful manner he summoned the remainder of the party and addressed them rapidly in Gaelic. "Now," said he at last, "is all clear? Evan Grant, who is in the stables of Fort Augustus, will see that the cart is ready. When the confusion is at its height he will put in the horse. You, Donald Chisholm, will lead the horses below the rampart during the night and mind they do not whinny at the dawn. There I will join you at cock-crow and a boy with me that will serve our purpose. He is like enough to another I ken of to hoodwink a pack of red-coats. Should aught go wrong make for the hills, and turn the beasts loose. Should they be deceived as I know they will, lead them into bog-land and scatter. You understand?" They all nodded their heads. "This day week then, for I have other work till then. Now go--but leave the lad there to watch the glen." Silently they crawled out of the cave-mouth, and were lost among the neighbouring rocks. Then, wrapping himself in his great-coat, Muckle John took the reed from his pocket and began to play a Skye song that the oarsmen sing for keeping time. But soon he tired of that and played an old Highland lament that is as full of sorrow as the hollow of the hills with snow. He played it in a heart-breaking fashion with an eye upon the boy in the cave-mouth, who was a Macpherson and easily moved. And when he saw the tears coursing down his brown cheeks he could not but gulp too, partly through sympathy but most of all because of his own grand playing.