"I am satisfied there is not a word of truth in what you say," rejoined Mr. Palmer. "I desire you to order your people away at once." "That I cannot do. It would be to require their consent to die of cold." "Let them die! What are they to me--or to anybody! Order them off, or it will be the worse for them--and for you too!" "Excuse me; I cannot." "I give you one more warning. Go yourself, and they will follow." "I will not." "Go, or I will compel you." As he spoke, he half raised his gun. "You dare not!" said the chief, drawing himself up indignantly. Together Mr. Palmer and Mr. Sercombe raised their guns to their shoulders, and one of them fired. To give Mr. Palmer the benefit of a doubt, he was not quite at home with his gun, and would use a hair-trigger. The same instant each found himself, breath and consciousness equally scant, floundering, gun and all, in the black bog water on whose edge he had stood. There now stood Rob of the Angels, gazing after them into the depth, with the look of an avenging seraph, his father beside him, grim as a gratified Fate. Such a roar of rage rose from the clansmen with the shot, and so many came bounding with sticks and spades over the rough ground, that the keepers, knowing, if each killed his two men, they would not after escape with their lives, judged it more prudent to wait orders. Only Valentine came running in terror to the help of his father. "Don't be frightened," said Rob; "we only wanted to wet their powder!" "But they'll be drowned!" cried the lad, almost weeping. "Not a hair of them!" answered Bob. "We'll have them out in a moment! But please tell your men, if they dare to lift a gun, we'll serve them the same. It wets the horn, and it cools the man!" A minute more, and the two men lay coughing and gasping on the crumbly bank, for in their utter surprizal they had let more of the nasty soft water inside than was good for them. With his first breath Sercombe began to swear. "Drop that, sir, if you please," said Rob, "or in you go again!" He began to reply with a volley of oaths, but began only, for the same instant the black water was again choking him. Might Hector of the Stags have had his way, he would have kept there the murderer of AN CABRACH MOR till he had to be dived for. Rob on his part was determined he should not come out until he gave his word that he would not swear. "Come! Come!" gasped Sercombe at length, after many attempts to get out which, the bystanders easily foiled--"you don't mean to drown me, do you?" "We mean to drown your bad language. Promise to use no more on this peat-moss," returned Rob. "Damn the promise you get from me!" he gasped.