‘I think—I think we’re safe here,’ I muttered. All at once a tumult of shouting and rifle-fire broke out directly beneath us. Venturing to look downhill I saw that two of the fugitives, sole survivors of their band so far as I could distinguish in my hasty scanning of the battlefield, had chosen to climb the shoulder of Meall nan Eacan rather than accompany their friends into the trap of the gully. They were able to cover a certain distance without being seen; I knew the burn they followed; I knew the place where the gorge cut by this burn grew shallow as it crossed the shoulder of the hill. Immediately they reached the shoulder the fugitives were observed. But they had gained a fair start. If they reached the peak of Meall nan Eacan they could keep their enemies at bay indefinitely. Defiles in the precipitous rocks that went up like a giant stairway to the peak made fortresses which two men could defend against a hundred.

As I reasoned thus I recalled our own situation. It seemed desperate at first. We were directly in the fugitives’ line of flight. Both hunters and hunted would undoubtedly take us for an enemy; we had to defend ourselves from both sides. It was easy enough for us to ascend to the peak of the hill in safety; but when we came there, what was there before us? My mind pictured the slow descent of the ridge that went down to the bogs round Loch an Doire Uaine. We could, it was true, plunge directly from our height to the valley of the Sluie. That was a trap to be avoided at all costs. Our only hope of safety depended on our keeping to high ground. Once in a valley with the Farrow’s steep looming over us we would be cornered at our enemies’ leisure.