Across the Glen spread the soldiers, cavalry and foot; the last light gleamed in their steel collars and muskets; Makian, at the head of his people, looked sternly at the leader who swept off his hat with another laugh; his red hair was blown back from his face and his light eyes gleamed as he spoke for the third time: “Ye know me, Macdonald?”
“Ay,” answered Makian in an impassive voice. “I know you, Robert Campbell of Glenlyon. I know not your errand.”
Captain Campbell lifted a gauntleted hand against the darkening sky, beckoning his men nearer.
“I come to root out your cursed den of thieves,” he said. “By the command of Scotland and the King.”
“Ye lying Campbell!” cried Makian. “We are under the protection of the King! I took the oath.”
“Too late,” smiled Glenlyon. “Ye are approved traitors and rebels, therefore surrender.”
At this Delia Featherstonehaugh came from the side of Ronald and crossed the wet heather between the Campbells and Macdonald till she came to Glenlyon’s saddle bow.
“Captain Campbell,” she said.
He looked down at her in a quick surprise.
“Take care,” said Delia. “I know—I know that the submission of these people has been suppressed.” Glenlyon frowned, and his eyes were curiously intent on her.