“Why did you strike me when you rode past?”
She gave a sudden laugh.
“My whip slipped—I meant it for the horse,” she said, “not for you, Macdonald of Glencoe—why should I?”
The thick peat smoke, that circled round the hut before it found the rude aperture that served as a chimney, made her cough and shudder.
“Where are we now?” she asked.
“By the entrance to Glenorchy,” he answered, gazing hard at her.
“Ah,” she said, “Jock Campbell’s lands—his castle lies there, you said?”
She was leaning against the wall; her eyes indifferently on the smoke and flame; then suddenly she lifted them and Macdonald started; they were such a vivid color, green as those of a wildcat.
“You are bold to come so near Glenorchy when you have burnt Jock of Breadalbane’s house,” she smiled.
“He is in the Lowlands,” Macdonald answered. “And I have said—no Campbell would follow where I go—to Glencoe—though Campbell of Breadalbane is serpent-cunning and very full of lies.”