“Will you come to Glencoe?” he asked simply.
She shook her head. “I must find my people,” she said resolutely. “Tell me the way—they ride in the direction of Glenorchy.”
Macdonald’s eyes flashed.
“Jock Campbell’s castle—you go there!” he cried.
“I go that way—not there,” she answered, “but to Loch Awe.”
He was appeased again. “Glenorchy is three miles from here,” he said. “And Glencoe some ten—as you are a woman I will go with you to find your people.”
She made no show of either gratitude or refusal. “I shall die of cold,” she said impatiently. “Take the bridle and lead the way.”
The drizzle had settled into a steady downpour; the sky was a merciless even gray; the distant hills wreathed with heavy rain clouds, the gloomy rocks about them running with water.
Macdonald took the horse’s head in silence and led him across the squelching heather. They were at the top of the ravine; the country before them was broken and utterly wild, but he had no fear of losing his way while he had the use of his eyes. The woman shuddered closer into her coat. “Put me on the road to Glenorchy,” she said. “My people will be looking for me.”
“Would you not be afraid alone, Helen Fraser?” he asked.