"Where's Dobson?" he asked.

"In the boiler-house," and for once Dougal's gravity had laughter in it.
"Govey Dick! but yon was a fecht! Me and Peter Paterson and
Wee Jaikie started it, but it was the whole company afore the end.
Are ye better, Jaikie?"

"Ay, I'm better," said a pallid midget.

"He kickit Jaikie in the stomach and Jaikie was seeck," Dougal explained.
"That's the three accounted for. I think mysel' that Dobson will be
the first to get out, but he'll have his work letting out the others.
Now, I'm for flittin' to the old Tower. They'll no ken where we are
for a long time, and anyway yon place will be far easier to defend.
Without they kindle a fire and smoke us out, I don't see how
they'll beat us. Our provisions are a' there, and there's a grand
well o' water inside. Forbye there's the road down the rocks that'll
keep our communications open....But what's come to Mr. Heritage?"

Dickson to his shame had forgotten all about his friend. The Poet lay
very quiet with his head on one side and his legs crooked limply.
Blood trickled over his eyes from an ugly scar on his forehead.
Dickson felt his heart and pulse and found them faint but regular.
The man had got a swinging blow and might have a slight concussion;
for the present he was unconscious.

"All the more reason why we should flit," said Dougal. "What d'ye
say, Mr. McCunn?"