Half a dozen dropped and still they came on, and three more of the little band of defenders fell under the storm of bullets. "Claymores!" cried Muckle John suddenly, and unsheathing his great blade, he flung down his musket and charged upon the foremost of the advancing soldiers. Rushing fresh and swiftly, with the slope to aid them, they drove the enemy back in confusion, hewing them down like corn under the scythe. But two more men were lost and the holding of the pass was nearing its end. Last of all to retrace his footsteps into the narrow pathway was Muckle John, and even as Rob turned to speak to him a shot rang out and a bullet lodged in his ankle-bone. "It's all over now, Rob," he said, looking at the wound. "I couldn't cover a hundred yards like this. Go, laddie, and you, Grant, and you, Macpherson--away with you. I can hold the place for a time." With the help of the man Macpherson he bound a piece of his shirt tightly about his ankle, and rested upon his other leg. All was very quiet outside. Evidently the enemy were gaining breath for the next and final assault. "Away with you," said Muckle John. But the two men would not leave him. They stood with Rob, awaiting his fury--and they had not to wait long. "Grant," he screamed, "what is this? Are you not sworn to obey me? And you, Macpherson? Oh, that I should be flouted to my very face! Begone, or I will kill you with my own sword!" They were now in full view of the soldiers, but no shot fell. Possibly the sight of a wrangle at such a time was too amazing to be missed. Avoiding his eyes the two Highlanders drew apart from their infuriated leader, and spoke together in Gaelic. "Are you going?" roared Muckle John. They nodded, and passing him, strode down the pass towards the soldiery. Even Muckle John was taken by surprise. With a sharp cry he attempted to stop them, but it was too late. They were twenty yards away before he had scrambled along the track. Then leaning heavily upon the smooth face of the rock, he watched them with wistful eyes, saying no more. "Farewell!" he cried at last; and fetching out his chanter he began to play the "Battle of the Clans," at which they turned and saluted him, and then, swinging their claymores, rushed upon the soldiers, and slashing right and left, fell amongst a heap of slain. In the pause that followed Muckle John changed the tune to the "Lament for the Children," which is like a moonlit sea for sadness. All the glen lay silent for a space at his playing; In a kind of superstitious fear the red-coats waited, dreading the black hills and menacing landscape, but dreading most of all the stricken player up above. It was Captain Strange who shook them from their panic. Very cautiously they began to creep upwards, and at that, Muckle John put away his whistle, and turning for his sword, saw Rob standing beside him, a bare claymore in his hand.