ers as a sign
that what he was doing was by no choice of his own.

"And when the Mac-Gregors come down the glen," the voice of the tempter
went on in Ewan's ear, "and ye see empty folds, a bloody hearthstone,
and the fire flashing out between the rafters of your house, ye may be
thinking then, Ewan, that were your friend Rob Roy to the fore, you
might have had that safe, which it will make your heart sore to lose!"

They were at this time halted on the river-bank, waiting for the signal
to bring over the Mac-Gregor. Rob made one last attempt.

"It's a sore thing," said Rob Roy, still closer in the ear of his
conductor, "that Ewan of Brigglands, whom Rob Roy has helped with hand,
sword, and purse, should mind a gloom from a great man more than a
friend's life."

Ewan, sorely agitated, was silent.

Then came the Duke's loud call from the opposite bank, "Bring over the
prisoner!"

Dashing forward precipitately, Ewan's horse, with the two men on his
back, entered the water. A soldier kept back Frank from following. But
in the waning light he could see the Duke getting his people into order
across the river, when suddenly a splash and a cry warned him that Rob
had prevailed on Ewan of Brigglands to give him one more chance for
life.

II. THE ESCAPE

In a moment all was confusion. The Duke shouted and ordered. Men rode
hither and thither in the fast-falling darkness, some really anxious to
earn the hundred guineas which the Duke promised to the captor of his
foe, but the most part trying rather by shouting and confusion to cover
Rob's escape. At one time, indeed, he was hardly pressed, several shots
coming very near him before he could lose himself in the darkness. He
was compelled to come to the surface to breathe, but in some way he
contrived to loosen his plaid, which, floating down the stream, took off
the attention of his more inveterate pursuers while he himself swam into
safety.

In the confusion Frank had been left alone upon the bank, and there he
remained till he heard the baffled troopers returning, some with vows of
vengeance upon himself.

"Where is the English stranger?" called one; "it was he who gave Rob the
knife to cut the belt!"

"Cleave the pock-pudding to the chafts!" said another.

"Put a brace of balls into his brain-pan!" suggested yet another.

"Or three inches of cold iron into his briskit!"

So, in order to nullify these various amiable intentions, Frank
Osbaldistone leaped from