They were crossing a level tract of moor; once she looked back at the men on the fir-tree; the rain was blotting them from sight, but she could see them faintly, dark against the sky.
Presently the dismal screaming of a bird of prey broke the desolate stillness.
“There is an eagle—has found a meal,” remarked Macdonald.
“How he skrieks!” she answered, and leaning from the saddle peered forward. “Look—ahead of us—”
A great brown eagle was hovering a few feet off the ground and another circled slowly above him.
“What have they found?” whispered the woman. She looked half-eagerly, half-fearfully; they were near enough for her to see a tumbled heap of plaid in the heather with something smooth and shining white in the midst.
The eagle wheeled his slow flight closer and she saw that his beak dripped with blood.
“Who are those he feeds on?” she asked very low.
Macdonald turned the horse’s head away from the eagle’s orgy.
“It is Campbell’s tartan and a Campbell’s skull,” he said. “What else?”