“What a place to dwell—this wilderness!”
And he answered in his Gaelic:
“The Glen o’ Weeping! The Glen o’ Weeping!”
As they advanced farther into the Glen, a few scattered dull-colored dwellings became visible, mostly situated in the windings and twistings of the steep sides, and as they drew yet nearer the very heart of the valley they beheld, spread before them twenty or thirty rude huts gathered in some semblance of order round a central one of more pretentious size.
They did not seem the habitations of human beings, but more like the quarries or lairs of some strange wild beasts; there were no people about, but from some of the roofs a thin curl of smoke arose.
The girl on the Highland pony, Delia Featherstonehaugh, looked long at the cluster of huts as they neared them.
“The chief of the Macdonalds dwells here?” she asked.
He nodded taciturnly.
They came slowly over the worn and faded heather into the center of the little colony, then Delia slipped from her horse.
“Makian’s house,” said the Highlander, pointing to the largest dwelling, and she followed him to the door, leading her tired pony; her garments were blown about her in the wind and her long locks escaped and flew across her face; she lifted her eyes again to the mountains in their grand solitude and her breast rose with the trembling of a sigh.