Suddenly she glanced down at him; he was very young, of a giant’s make; his square cut fresh face, tanned the color of ripe corn, looked up at her; his clear eyes were very steady under the rough brown hair; she gave a slow faint smile.
“Are you too lost?” she asked.
“It were not possible for me to lose my way to Glencoe,” he answered. “But I have missed my men.”
He was still studying her with a frank absorbed curiosity; she pushed her heavy rain-soaked hat a little off her face and at sight of her red-blonde hair, he cried out, fiercely:
“Ye are a Campbell!”
Her face expressed a cold surprise.
“I am Helen Fraser,” she said quietly, “and no kin to the Clan of Campbell.”
It would have been difficult to disbelieve her unconcern; Macdonald hesitated, not knowing what to do.
“Will you put me on my way?” she asked as a probe to his silence. “I am wet and cold—and most utterly lost.”
At the note in her voice all his Highland hospitality woke.