She had become very silent; she took his care with no thanks, passively, but all the while her jewel-like eyes were covertly studying him.
He came and sat opposite to her; his huge shadow dancing behind him. Between them lay her steaming red coat, the gold wine-cups, and the elegant French bottle, brilliant on the mud floor.
Outside the rain was coming down less heavily, but the wind had risen and they could hear the rocking of the fir-trees.
She spoke at last, in her quiet voice: “Do you go to the conference Breadalbane holds at Glenorchy?” she asked. “You know he calls the Highlands thither to treat of peace—and loyalty to the new King.”
Macdonald laughed:
“And the gold he hath to buy us fills his own coffers—there will be no peace while Jock Campbell treats,” he answered.
“But many great chiefs have gone,” she said, “And the whole force of the new King is behind Breadalbane—”
“We may go,” replied Macdonald. “But we will not take the oaths.”
Another silence fell; she stirred the smoldering peat with her foot; he seemed to be utterly absorbed in watching her; she had taken his wild fancy most suddenly, most completely.
“I must go on,” she said at last. “They will be searching for me.”