"You here!" he cried. "I thought you had gone. It was dreaming I was, Rob. Run, boy, for the night is close upon us. Ye won't? Well, well--it's a rare spirit ye have, Rob, but it's like to trip you up this night," and he swept the passage with his sword. "Guard you my legs, Rob, and when I'm tired of standing on one foot, I'll lean against the wall." So in the deepening gloom, without further word they awaited the attack. It came very suddenly. Two soldiers rushed with a wild shout down the echoing passageway. One was pierced on the instant by the point of Muckle John's sword; the other swung about, and was caught on the turn by a lunge from Rob. "Two," said Muckle John softly, and eased his dirk for the short upward stab. A moment's pause, and four men came at a cautious pace towards them. Muskets they carried, but they did not level them for fear of hitting the Prince, for so they took the indistinct figure of Rob to be. Instead, they clubbed them, and prepared to smash down the defence of their sword-play. At that, however, Muckle John slipped a pistol out of his belt, and discharged it in their faces, to their utmost confusion. One man screamed, and, holding his hands to his eyes, dashed headlong down the slope. His cries sent a chill to Rob's very heart. Then suddenly they charged the place, driving the foremost men onward from the rear, and even the quick thrust and stab of Muckle John could not resist that reckless onslaught. Within a few minutes the heap of the dead and fallen men was up to their elbows in that narrow place. The voice of Strange urging on the fragments of his force now reached them. But only muttering curses and sullen voices followed, and with a laugh, Muckle John whistled a Highland rant--a mischievous, derisive tune, with a world of insolence in it. It brought its reply, for even as he whistled, a single man came down the black passage-way, staying his pace only when he stood within sword-thrust. "Muckle John," he said quietly. The other ceased his whistling. "At your service, Captain Strange," he replied, with a faint note of amusement in his voice. "Will you have it out with me, Muckle John?" went on Strange. "Let it be to the death, for they will never forgive me this night's work." "Oho!" cried Muckle John. "Here's a ploy! Did they think that such as you could take me?" "Not you; but one whom you have sheltered, Heaven alone knows why. Is he still here?" "He left two hours ago and more. You must search Lochaber, Captain Strange. I doubt you've made a sair muddle of this." The moon was topping the hills, and a soft grey light stole suddenly down the crags, and fell upon the face of Strange. "What of your men?" asked Muckle John at last. Strange gave a bitter laugh. "They will not stir," he said, "and if they do, Rob here can hold the pass." "I am not an executioner," said Muckle John, "and I have only one leg."