It was now the month of May, and still Rob lay in his cell. During the past ten days every source of refined torture had been applied to break down his silence. Starved, beaten, threatened, he maintained a stony front, until Strange in despair had left him to himself for two whole days. It was on the morning of the third day that he returned, and Rob saw by the elation in his eyes that something had happened. He could only guess that it meant another disaster to the hunted Jacobites. "Up, you dog!" he cried; "and hear the news. What has your silence earned you, do you think? It has made you a traitor, Master Rob Fraser--a name that your clan will revile for all time. Ho, ho, ho! Think of that now--there's fame for ye! I'd give twenty guineas to hear what Lovat says when he learns that he was betrayed by..." "Stop!" cried Rob, "why should he believe such a lie?" "Because we shall have to break it to him. Otherwise he might guess who is really telling secrets, Rob, and that would spoil all." With a mournful groan, the boy covered his face with his hands. "Why do you not kill me now?" he asked in a hopeless voice. "Kill you?" echoed Strange. "Man alive, there'd be poor sense in that! It is just because we will not hang ye that people will know just why. No, no, Rob. You'll live like a fighting-cock, whether ye like it or no." "It will take more than you to find Lord Lovat," broke out Rob. Strange shook his head gleefully. "Shall I whisper where he lies hid?" he said. "There's an island at the foot of Arkaig, called Moror--am I no right?" and he shook with silent laughter. At that the floor beneath Rob's feet seemed to dance up and down, and a great despair made him deaf to all that Strange said--deaf to the shutting of the door--to the brooding silence that settled once again upon his solitude. When he opened his eyes the sun was sinking, and he was alone. The bitterness of the situation stunned him utterly. How could anyone deny that he had turned informer, especially when the report went round that it was to save his life. He thought he had valued his neck; but now he knew there were things infinitely worse than death. What would he not give now to have lured on Muckle John, and so won his freedom by pretending he had the plan? And as he brooded deeply, out of the twilight, like a bird's note dropping into silence, came the soft music of a chanter. With a cry he started to his feet and listened. Again it reached him--a thin bar of wistful melody, the sign of Muckle John.