I spared a glance for the broken mob of fugitives who raced westwards; they surely did not know the country. Ardverikie fence had to be crossed, and if their foes let them pass that obstacle they came into boggy country where they could be cut down at leisure. I caught sight of a lagging figure in this band who did not fly in blind panic like his fellows; he glanced backwards, he kept his rifle. When the leader of the other company leapt on a stone to urge his followers forward this man dropped behind a hillock. He crept back to meet his foes until he could just see them over the ridge of his hillock. His rifle went forward, steadied, aimed. The leader on the stone was falling before I heard the shot. The marksman stood up to wave his rifle defiantly at the enemy. The attackers wavered, with their eyes on their leader’s stricken body. If the other side had turned now they might have saved the day. But they were in headlong flight and the remaining Lewis gunner had time to take his friend’s place. He shouted a hoarse command; hoarser cries answered him. The victorious company raced after their foes. Now and then a rifle cracked. The fugitives floundered; they saw the fence too late and attempted to swerve up the hill; they were killed before they ascended a couple of hundred yards. I saw one man stumble and fall. Two of his hunters were on him like hounds. A rifle swung up, its butt fell with a noise like an axe. The thing on the ground squirmed convulsively. His assailants flung themselves on him as if they must finish their work before his life was fully sped. In a moment they rose, one brandishing two rifles, the other casting what appeared to be a haversack over his shoulder; they glared around them for another victim.

Suddenly remembering Terry, I looked fixedly away from the scene of that man’s death for a moment or two so that if she followed my gaze she might escape seeing what I had seen. I was wise too late, but when I turned my head, praying that she had not seen, her eyes were tightly closed. She sat with a face like death, frozen in horror. Her hands clutched the heather by her side.

‘Terry!’ I whispered.

‘Is it all over?’ she asked in a low voice, without opening her eyes.

‘Terry—’ I said again. My tongue clave to my mouth. I could not speak except to say ‘Terry!’ a third time in a rough voice I did not recognize for my own. The smell of cordite drifted up round us. She opened her eyes.