“No,” she answered quietly.
“Are you friendly with the Clan of Campbell?” he said, “for you must cross their lands.”
“I know nothing of them,” came the tired voice from the great collar. “But—I say—I am not afraid.”
He was silent again; he knew little or nothing of the distant Clan of Frasers, he marveled at the dress and refined appearance of this woman: he had never seen any but the Campbell’s women in this Lowland habit.
Neither spoke as they wound through the rocks and heather; he at the horse’s head, heedless of the cold and rain; she huddled on the saddle, shivering under it.
She spoke at last so suddenly that he turned with a start.
“Who are those?” she said.
He looked in the direction her gloved hand pointed.
From the branch of a great fir-tree two men were dangling, the rain dripping forlornly from their soaked clothes and the fair hair that fell over their dead faces.
“Campbells,” answered Macdonald. “Would there were more than two.”