MORAG.  It is the wild night outside.

MARY STEWART.  Is the snow still coming down?

MORAG.  It is that, then—­dancing and swirling with the wind too, and never stopping at all.  Aye, and so black I cannot see the other side of the road.

MARY STEWART.  That is good.

(MORAG moves across the floor and stops irresolutely.  She is restless, expectant.)

MORAG.  Will I be putting the light in the window?

MARY STEWART.  Why should you be doing that?  You have not heard his call (turns eagerly), have you?

MORAG (with sign of head).  No, but the light in the window would show him all is well.

MARY STEWART.  It would not, then!  The light was to be put there after we had heard the signal.

MORAG.  But on a night like this he may have been calling for long and we never hear him.

MARY STEWART.  Do not be so anxious, Morag.  Keep to what he says.  Put more peat on the fire now and sit down.

MORAG (with increasing excitement).  I canna, I canna!  There is that in me that tells me something is going to befall us this night.  Oh, that wind!  Hear to it, sobbing round the house as if it brought some poor lost soul up to the door, and we refusing it shelter.

MARY STEWART.  Do not be fretting yourself like that.  Do as I bid you.  Put more peats to the fire.

MORAG (at the wicker peat-basket).  Never since I....  What was that?

(Both listen for a moment.)

MARY STEWART.  It was just the wind; it is rising more.  A sore night for them that are out in the heather.

(MORAG puts peat on the fire without speaking.)

MARY STEWART.  Did you notice were there many people going by to-day?

MORAG.  No.  After daybreak the redcoats came by from Struan; and there was no more till nine, when an old man like the Catechist from Killichonan passed.  At four o’clock, just when the dark was falling, a horseman with a lad holding to the stirrup, and running fast, went by towards Rannoch.

MARY STEWART.  But no more redcoats?

MORAG (shaking her head).  The road has been as quiet as the hills, and they as quiet as the grave.  Do you think will he come?

MARY STEWART.  Is it you think I have the gift, girl, that you ask me that?  All I know is that it is five days since he was here for meat and drink for himself and for the others—­five days and five nights, mind you; and little enough he took away; and those in hiding no’ used to such sore lying, I’ll be thinking.  He must try to get through to-night.  But that quietness, with no one to be seen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag.  They must know something.  They must be watching.

(A sound is heard by both women.  They stand listening.)

MARY STEWART.  Haste you with the light, Morag.