"An' ye'll bear me out," he shouted, "that there's them wha' hear these
words now shall meet their weirds ere a hunter's moon is wasted!"
He laughed his insane laugh and, throwing his rifle over his shoulder,
halted, facing us.
"Hae ye no heard o' Catrine Montour?" he jeered. "She'll come in the
night, Andrew Bowman! Losh, mon, but she's a grewsome carlin', wi' the
witch-locks hangin' to her neck an' her twa een blazin'!"
"You drive us out to-night!" shouted Redstock. "We'll remember it when
Brant is in the hills!"
"The wolf-yelp! Clan o' the wolf!" screamed McCraw. "Woe! Woe to
Broadalbane! 'Tis the pibroch o' Glencoe shall wake ye to the woods
afire! Be warned! Be warned, for ye stand knee-deep in ye're shrouds!"
In the ruddy dusk their dark forms turned to shadows and were gone.
Van Horn stirred in his saddle, then shook his shoulders as though
freeing them from a weight.
"Now you have it, you Broadalbin men," he said, grimly. "Go to the forts
while there's time."
In the darkness around us children began to whimper; a woman broke down,
sobbing.
"Silence!" cried Bowman, sternly. And to Dorothy, who sat quietly on her
horse beside him, "Say to the patroon that we know our enemies. And you,
Peter Van Horn, on whichever side you stand, we men of the Bush thank
you and this young lady for your coming.
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