The noise of firing checked our speed. We ran softly to listen. We heard ragged volleys and amongst them the sound of one rifle at regular spaced intervals.

‘They’ve turned at bay!’ I cried joyfully. ‘We’ll manage now—’

I spoke too soon. Just as we reached the outskirts of the moss a shout from the east, borne loud on the wind, made us pause, and turn. We saw a couple of figures outlined on the ridge of Meall nan Eacan. At first, prompted by hope, I thought it was the fugitives. A burst of rifle-fire beyond the hill-top told me that I hoped in vain. These men we saw on the skyline, who now disappeared as they flung themselves down the steep, belonged to the pursuit. No doubt they were unaware of our existence, no doubt their aim was to circumvent the fugitives and take them from the rear. Nevertheless they had seen us and we were cut off from the Durc, for their viewpoint commanded our entire route. If we dared to enter the Little Durc now we could be trapped like rats. One man posted on each summit that towered over the gorge of the Durc would guard its entire length, its exit and its entrance. Our fastest most happily guided pace across the bog must be slower than the speed with which they came downhill to outflank us.

Our last chance of safety depended wholly on my knowledge of the lie of the ground, of which our enemies were surely ignorant. I knew that if we allowed ourselves to be driven away from the stable footing of the Farrow we had only one retreat, into the wild moss which stretches deep between Loch Pattock and Strathmashie. On another day than this we would no doubt have used that dangerous road and saved ourselves by lightness of foot like moss-troopers. Our feet were leaden, we were nearing the end of our strength. Unless we found secure footing soon we must turn at bay like our fellow-fugitives.

I swung to the right, leaving Loch an Doire Uaine to the east. The woods by Loch Ericht, which saved me once before, must be our goal.