He put his lips to it, then held it out to her with something like a challenge in his eyes.
“Drink with me, Helen Fraser.”
She took it, drank, and gave it back to him with the same unmoved smile.
“Now we are pledged friends,” he cried. “But wait—ye shall break bread with me—”
“I cannot eat,” she said. “Believe me—I am sick with weariness.”
He looked at her keenly over the brim of the brilliant wine-cup.
“Ye shall do it,” he said. “I would be allied with thy clan.”
He broke the bread and salt that to him formed a rite impossible to violate and gave it her with eager blue eyes on her face.
She took it slowly, afraid to show reluctance, and ate a little while he watched her closely.
Then he put one of the skins on the log and another under her feet, and stirred up the fire to give her warmth.