the Ayr road, or by the Auchenlochan highway, branching off half a
mile beyond the Garple bridge. But Dickson, who had been studying
the map and fancied himself as a pathfinder, chose the direct route
across the Long Muir as being at once shorter and more sequestered.
With the dawn the wind had risen again, but it had shifted towards
the north-west and was many degrees colder. The mist was furling on
the hills like sails, the rain had ceased, and out at sea the eye
covered a mile or two of wild water. The moor was drenching wet,
and the peat bogs were brimming with inky pools, so that soon the
travellers were soaked to the knees. Dickson had no fear of pursuit,
for he calculated that Dobson and his friends, even if they had got out,
would be busy looking for the truants in the vicinity of the House and
would presently be engaged with the old Tower. But he realized, too,
that speed on his errand was vital, for at any moment the Unknown
might arrive from the sea.

So he kept up a good pace, half-running, half-striding, till they
had passed the railway, and he found himself gasping with a stitch
in his side, and compelled to rest in the lee of what had once
been a sheepfold. Saskia amazed him. She moved over the rough heather
like a deer, and it was her hand that helped him across the deeper hags.
Before such youth and vigour he felt clumsy and old. She stood looking
down at him as he recovered his breath, cool, unruffled, alert as Diana.
His mind fled to Heritage, and it occurred to him suddenly that
the Poet had set his affections very high. Loyalty drove him
to speak for his friend.

"I've got the easy job," he said. "Mr. Heritage will have the
whole pack on him in that old Tower, and him with such a sore clout
on his head. I've left him my pistol. He's a terrible brave man!"