“Who are you, mistress?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” Her words came quickly, she put her hand on his rein; both soldiers and Highlanders watched her in silence. “What authority have you? Take care how ye satisfy a private feud under cover of the law.”
“I obey my commands,” answered Glenlyon, still gazing at her, “I have the letter here,” he touched his breast. “Higher than I, mistress, must answer for this day’s work; Hill, Hamilton, Breadalbane and the Master of Stair.”
He smiled at her slow look of horror.
“What are the Macdonalds to you?” he asked.
“I came from London to warn them,” said Delia in a vague manner. “But surely it is in vain—what are you going to do?”
“My orders are to slay every Macdonald under seventy—and pay particular attention to the old fox and his cubs.”
“My God! oh, my God!” she slipped to her knees and clung to his stirrup in a distracted manner, with her wild eyes staring fixedly; she made no appeal beyond that cry and the agony of her glance; she knelt there ready for his horse to trample her to death.
Glenlyon stooped from the saddle and loosened her hands gently; then he beckoned to one of his soldiers.
“Take her away,” he said with a flushed face. “Take care of her,” and as the man lifted Delia from the ground, his gray eyes dwelt on her face in a troubled manner.