“What good will that be if he hasn’t a key to unlock the door? I think we’ll be very lucky indeed if we don’t spend the night in this dungeon. Was your lantern broken?”

The chaplain and the gamekeeper were standing at the top of the steps that led down into the dungeon from the outside door. Duncan struck a match, which lit up the bottom of the Cradle dimly enough, but sufficiently to show that his lantern was lying at the bottom of it.

“I’ll go down and see if it can be lighted,” he said. “Have you any matches, Mr Fletcher?”

“No, I haven’t any. Why? Haven’t you plenty?”

“I have only two left. It’s a great pity I didn’t get another box. Wait you where you are, Mr Fletcher. I’ll go down the steps.” Presently he called up from below. “The glass is broken all to pieces, but there’s a little oil left in it. There you are,” he said when he had used one of his matches to light the wick of the lantern, which smoked a good deal but did at least banish the oppressive blackness of Mac ’ic Eachainn’s Cradle.

“This really is not a suitable place in which to shut anybody up,” said the chaplain. “I wonder where those hikers have gone?”

It was at this moment that they rushed into the Great Hall just as Ben Nevis had noted that the long hand of the clock stood at a minute from half-past eight and was wondering what the deuce was keeping his chaplain now.

“Look here, what does this mean?” demanded Mr Sydney Prew, any lack of impressiveness in his own prim voice being supplied by the snarls of the seven younger hikers which provided a menacing accompaniment.

The Chieftain drew himself up to his full height.

“It means that I have decided to release you and I hope the experience will be a lesson not to disturb my birds again, and not to light fires in my heather.”

“And also,” Mrs MacDonald put in, “that supper is waiting for you in the old dining-hall. Didn’t Mr Fletcher make that clear?”

The Secretary of the National Union of Hikers stepped forward, held up his hand to quell the snarling of his seven companions, and thus addressed Ben Nevis:

“If you think, Mr MacDonald, that you can escape the consequences of your fascist behaviour …”

Yowls, boohs and hisses from his followers caused Mr Sydney Prew to raise his hand again.

“I repeat, Mr MacDonald, you cannot escape the consequences of the disgraceful assault you and your fascist …” Once again the word was too much for the feelings of the representatives of democracy. Their yowls, boohs and hisses were redoubled.

“Please, boys,” said Mr Prew, turning round reproachfully, “please, please! I repeat, Mr MacDonald …”