be safe home with his money.  Only—­who was that on the road ahead of him?  A soldier by his coat, surely, with his servant riding behind.  Well, so much the better; that would be company for him over the loneliest part of his ride, across the moor which bore an evil name.  So M’Fadyen pressed on, and soon he caught up the two riders, first the servant, “mounted upon ane dark grey horse” and armed with a “long gun”; then the master, also riding a dark grey horse, and dressed in a scarlet coat with gold-thread buttons.  A tall man, the latter—­a striking-looking man, quite a personage, with thin refined face and high Roman nose; instead of a wig he wore his own brown hair tied in a cue behind, and over one eye he had a notable peculiarity, “a wrat (wart) as big as ane nut.”  In his holsters this gentleman carried a brace of pistols.

Surely here was good fortune for M’Fadyen!  A party so well armed could afford to look with contempt on any highwayman that ever cried “Stand and deliver” over all broad Scotland.  And it was not long before the honest drover, in the joy of his heart at finding himself in such goodly company, had expressed to the red-coated stranger the pleasure it would give him if he might be granted the escort across the moor of a gentleman so well armed and mounted; “for,” said he, “in sic ill times it was maist mischancey wark to ride far ane’s lane.”  Little objection had the tall gentleman in red to make to such a proposition, and on they rode, amicably enough, with just such dryness of manner on the stranger’s part as the humble drover might expect from an army officer, yet nothing to keep his tongue from wagging.  “It was a gey kittle bit they were comin’ to, where the firs stude, and he wad hae liked ill to be rubbit.  Muckle?  O—­oo, no; just a wee pickle siller, but nae man likit to lose onything.  And folk said they highwayman wad skin the breeks aff a Hielandman.  No that he was a Hielandman, though his name did begin wi’ a “Mac.”

And so chattering, they had already won half-way across that lonely stretch of moor regarding which the drover had had misgivings.  And even as they came abreast of that thick clump of stunted firs, up to M’Fadyen rode the servant, pointing towards the trees, and saying:  “This is our way.  Come ye wi’ me.”

There were few roads—­such as they were—­in the south of Scotland with which M’Fadyen’s business as a drover had not made him familiar, and naturally he refused now to leave a track which he knew to be the right one.  Whereupon the servant up with his “long-gun” and struck him heavily over the head with the butt; and as M’Fadyen strove to defend himself and to retaliate, up rode the master, clapped a pistol to his breast, and forced him to go with them behind the clump of trees.  The last M’Fadyen saw of his pleasant escort was the two knaves cantering over the heath, bearing with them his cloak-bag containing his L150.