His carelessness threw about him a grandeur, lifting him above the others, each one eager for his own life; Delia looked at him and laid her hand on his folded arms.
“I too,” she said quietly, “better to be dead than to be—alone. And I have no purpose in life.”
The long line of ponies had come up; the bundles were strapped on them; the Macdonalds were moving to and fro.
Then it happened Delia dropped her hand from Ronald’s arm and cried out:
“The soldiers!”
They had come at a full gallop round a turn in the Glen; at a full gallop they came over the heather and at a shout from their leader drew up a few paces off.
As suddenly as the falling snow or the rain will cover the ground, so suddenly had these soldiers appeared and spread themselves across the Glen before the Macdonalds could fly or scream or warn each other; before they could do anything save realize their peril.
The leader of the redcoats was almost in their midst, in the security of his steel cuirass he defied them; he was a large red man with a freckled face showing under his black beaver; his horse was panting with the speed of his gallop, he patted her neck carelessly, while he spoke:
“Macdonald! surrender, in the name of the King—” he swept his glance over the confused array; he noted the preparations for flight.
“So ye have been warned of my coming!” he said and laughed.