"Oh, he'll have ye right enough," sneered the master; "he's nane sae many, and rope is cheap. Good-bye, my bonny recruit. We'll meet again belike." Taking no notice of his words, Rob hurried to the doorway and out upon the road. The clangour of the bagpipes was filling the narrow streets and the cheers of the townspeople rose and fell as the Prince's troops marched past. Suddenly the volume of sound grew deafening, and hats were flung into the air on every side. For a moment he caught a glimpse of a young man riding upon a bay horse who smiled and nodded his head, holding his bonnet in his hand. And in that swift vision Rob knew him for Prince Charlie, for whom he was prepared to risk his life. CHAPTER II THE COMING OF MUCKLE JOHN The muffled tramp of feet went beating past along the road. That such an army should have caused such utter panic to the English throne and sent London into a condition of wild terror, was amazing, and must ever remain so. Ill clad, poorly armed, ragged, gaunt, undisciplined, it presented a spectacle more like an assemblage of starved vagrants than conquering soldiery. Many were quite old men, many were stunted, sickly creatures, coughing terribly as they limped along. Boys, many without shoes or stockings, some not more than sixteen, made up a goodly part of that desperate force. Many of those who owned swords had them tied about their waists with ropes of straw. Perhaps a third of the entire force were capably equipped with targe, claymore and dirk, while a number had firelocks slung across their backs. They may have been dusty, ragged, footsore, but to Rob they were heroes of romance. He looked beyond their haggard faces and their bleeding feet and shabby clothes. They were a veteran army as yet unbeaten. They carried themselves with the confidence of victory, accepting the cheers of Inverness with the air of men receiving their due. Through a sort of mist Rob saw the tartans swinging, looked into unknown bearded faces, caught the glint of sunlight upon the cold whiteness of steel. The crowd about him began to thin; the last of the troops had passed. Already the road was a swaying, excited tumult of people. Now at the back of Rob there stood a tavern owned by Major Fraser of Castleleathers, a former friend of Lord Lovat, but fallen into adversity. He was a great rubicund man some sixty-six years of age, and with no particular interest in either Jacobite or Whig. Rob knew him well. Many a happy evening had he spent listening to his stories of the great days of long ago. Major Fraser thought things had come to a pretty pass when English troops were hounding good folk about the country side. Rob heard him say so from the tavern door. He was standing on the top step staring with half-closed eyes after the disappearing Highlanders. Above his broad red forehead, his white hair was fluttering in the quirky February wind.