With a little uneasy movement she lifted her head; her long throat gleamed unnaturally white above her dark dress.
“Sometimes—I—think o’ the Macdonalds.”
Breadalbane laughed as if he cast aside some foolish fancy.
“We hae triumphed ower the Macdonalds, Peggy—the auld thief Makian got his deserts.”
“Yea, I ken.”
“And Ronald Macdonald—ye hated him, Peggy.”
“I ken,” she said hastily, with yearning eyes on his face. “I wad I might forget.”
“Wherefore, Peggy?”
“Ah!—sleeping and waking—I see it—the Glen o’ Weeping—as I rode through it that day wi’ the smoke drifting ower the corpses—and the bitter dawn a-breaking—the bluid ower the heather and the silence, the silence.”
With a half-shudder her eyes drooped and her clasp of his arm tightened.