“Live. Live to—” she dropped her hand from her face and pressed it to her bosom. “I am going—to make a man pay the price of the blood he has shed—to pay the price.”
“What is your name?” asked Glenlyon.
“Delia,” she said indifferently, and she moved toward the door; the cold light was full on her pale face and her long fallen hair dark over her shoulders.
Glenlyon followed, his sword clanking on the floor.
“Come with me.”
His voice came unsteadily. “You may command me,” he said.
As if she suddenly realized him, Delia lifted her head; he flushed under his tan, and in a troubled way took off his beaver. “Give me—your hand—if I might.”
The brown eyes considered him: “Robert Campbell—what do ye mean?” she asked wildly. “I have my life’s work—I have told you—”
“Will you come with me?” he asked again. “Will you—trust me?”
Delia’s glance fell to the dead man; then she looked away down the valley: slowly back at Glenlyon.