“There’s no use in trying to rouse your father, Neal. He will not hear us. Do you know anyone who will sell or hire us horses?” “Rab MacClure has horses,” said Neal. “He has two, I know. He lives not far from this, about a mile along the road towards Ballintoy.” “Come, then,” said Donald, “I suppose the family will be all abed by this time. We must rouse them. There’s Scripture warrant for it. ‘Friend, lend me three loaves.’ We must imitate the man in the Gospel. If he won’t give us the horses for the asking we must weary him with importunity.” It was ten o’clock when Donald and his nephew set out. The clouds were blown away, and the sky clear. The moon rode high, and by its light they caught glimpses from the road of the white foam of the sea breaking on the dark strand below them. The roar of the waves came loud to them as they walked. A quarter of an hour’s quick walking brought them to their destination. “There’s the house,” said Neal. “They are not in bed,” said Donald, “I can see lights in the windows.” Neal led the way across a stile and over a field. Lights moved from one window to another in the house. A sound of wailing rose! and fell, mingling with the monotonous roar of the waves. The door stood wide open. Within, a woman rocked herself to and fro on a low stool. Three children clung to her petticoats and cried piteously. A farm labourer stood, stupidly motionless, beside the dresser. A maid servant, with a light in her hand, flitted restlessly in and out of the kitchen. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. She was but half dressed, like one aroused suddenly from bed. A rush-light burned in an iron stand on the floor, shedding a feeble light. Donald and Neal stood at the door astonished. “Our friends the yeomen have been here,” said Donald. “I guess they have taken the man of the house away with them. We’ve another account to settle with James Finlay when we get him.” “Mistress MacClure,” said Neal, “I’ve come to know if you will hire or sell us two horses. We must be travelling to-morrow morn.” “Horses,” cried the woman. “Who speaks o’ horses? I wouldna care if ye were to rive horse and beast and a’ from me now. My man’s gone. Oh, my weans, my weans, who’ll care for you now when they’ve kilt your da? Oh, the bonny man, and the kind!” “Is it you, Master Neal?” said the farm servant. “Will you no fetch the minister till her?” “I will, I will,” said Neal, conscience-stricken at having mentioned his own need in a home so sorely stricken with grief. He ran from the house back to the manse. Donald took the labourer outside the door and spoke to him. He explained that he was the minister’s brother. He said that he had pressing need of the horses. He offered money. The man shook his head. “They are no mine, and the mistress is in no way to bargain with you the night.” “I want the horses,” said Donald, “to ride after the villain who betrayed your master.” The man’s face brightened suddenly.