“It is well,” muttered the rascal.

Then he turned and disappeared into the woods.

The trees broke the biting wind, but Bunol cursed the cold and the country.

Coming to a little footpath where the thin snow showed the imprints of many feet, he turned off and walked a short distance to the shore of the lake, on which lay a stout boat.

Sitting on a fallen tree near the boat was a sandy-haired, bearded, rough-looking man, who had a rather brutal face, and, judging by his massive frame, possessed great strength.

“Well, MacLane, I am returned,” said Miguel.

The man nodded.

“I see ye are,” he said. “Did ye ha’ guid luck?”

“Oh, yes; you were right in saying my birds were at the Ben Cleuch. Now, if Aaron keeps his part of the contract——”

“Fear nawt, he wi’ keep it,” nodded MacLane. “Aaron kens Rob MacLane fu’ well, an’ he dare na disobey me. He will come.”

“I think he will,” agreed Bunol. “I looked back, and a small man waved something at me from the back of the house.”

“That were Aaron. I told him to follow ye, man, when he left, but to take guid care he were no’ observed. He will be here.”

“Well, I hope he comes soon, for this devil’s weather is uncomfortable.”

“Hoot man! Ye dinna ken what cauld weather is.”

“If that’s the case, I don’t want to know,” retorted Bunol. “This is quite enough for me.”

They sat on the log, talking in low tones, until a little, bent man, with a shawl wrapped about his shoulders, came gliding softly through the woods and stood before them.

“Here’s Aaron,” said MacLane. “Aaron, this is the man I would ha’ ye meet.”

Aaron said nothing, but surveyed Bunol with a pair of small eyes that were set close together and were filled with a light of mingled cunning and simplicity. It was not the face of a man to trust, yet for five years 

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