The first blast of the wind made her shudder, but she stepped out into the rain with a resolute carriage.
Her horse was tethered close under some fir-trees: his glittering harness was the only bright thing in the gloomy landscape; he lifted his head at sight of his mistress and she turned toward him.
But she was stopped by Macdonald’s hand on her shoulder.
“Look about ye, Helen Fraser—and think if ye would go alone!”
She glanced at him and then about her; below them the river Orchy, tumbled through the ravine, about them the mountains towered into the mist, to either side were great broken spaces of heather, moss and bog; straight before them ran a strip of dirty white road that wound through the Glen of Orchy. Over all was the veil of the pitiless rain and the sound of the tossing fir-trees.
Helen Fraser, erect, bareheaded, looked on it unmoved.
“Where does that road lead?” she asked.
Macdonald’s blue eyes flashed.
“To Castle Kilchurn—Jock Campbell’s house,” he answered. “Not your way—your kinsfolk can have no business there.”
“No,” she said, and coughed and shivered. She gave no sign of where she was going or upon what errand she and her clan were bound, and he, having broken bread with her, would not deign to question; she might be concerned in some of the intricate politics or feuds of the Highlands; he felt it no matter of his, but he also felt he would not lose sight of her so easily.