‘The wind is favourable,’ said the earl, as another cloud rolled over them, ‘and you need not fear for more than the prison tower; for the sake of humanity, I trust, my lord, that it may be empty!’ Rothes did not answer; truth to say, he had quite forgotten Walter Maxwell, and even had he remembered him, would have thought the life of one poor prisoner mattered but little at such a time. The three noblemen addressed themselves to the task of quenching the fire with characteristic energy. Backed by the exertions of Rothes’ disciplined followers, they soon succeeded in subduing the flames, and, ere nightfall, Leslie House had resumed its usual appearance of security, having suffered but little damage save the scorching of its outer wall. Poor old Ralph, however, was found dead in the dungeon, probably stifled by the smoke. But it is not with the inmates of Leslie that we have now to do. As may be imagined, directly the coast was clear, Maxwell lost no time in slipping out of the tree. With a fervent thanksgiving in his heart, he dropped upon the sward, and ran as hard as his legs could carry him in the direction of the open country. Yet, even now, his situation was one of no ordinary hazard and embarrassment. He was unarmed; he was in an enemy’s country; he might meet, at any moment, with retainers of Lord Rothes, who would recognise him at once for an escaped prisoner. Moreover, he was weaker than ordinary, from his long confinement, and, even had it been otherwise, he could not expect to reach Perth on foot in time to warn the Queen of the plot laid against her person; and how was he to procure a horse? Cogitating these matters with considerable anxiety, he hurried on nevertheless, and was dismayed to find limbs and breath failing him as he ran. To add to his discomfiture he heard footsteps approaching rapidly from behind. Turning his head, he espied the countryman whom he had already observed in the garden, nearing him with every stride. Maxwell would have given ten years of his life ungrudgingly to have had as many inches of steel in his belt. ‘’Od sake, man, ye can run as weel as fight!’ exclaimed a familiar voice close to him, as the fugitive slackened speed to collect his strength for the desperate struggle he anticipated. ‘Keep wast, hinny! keep wast! down yon burnie-side. I can hear “Wanton Willie” nickerin’ at us the noo!’ Though they still kept on at a rapid pace, between running and walking, Maxwell’s hand was fast locked in that of ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ whilst the borderer, pointing to a neighbouring brake in which a confederate, with two led horses, was concealed, in a tone of suppressed triumph assured his friend that he was safe.