“I shallna’ need to be riding my own lands armed when the Macdonalds of Glencoe are—weel, treated as to their desserts,” he remarked as he shook out his crumpled buff coat.
As she laid down his cuirass he spoke again:
“What was the name of this Macdonald to-day?” he asked quietly.
“Ronald—the chief’s son he said,” she answered.
Breadalbane yawned, then glanced with half-shut eyes at his sword hilt.
“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he said—“maybe the laddie will live.”
He glanced at his wife.
“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he repeated. “Weel, a Campbell always has a vera gude memory.”
CHAPTER IV
DELIA FEATHERSTONEHAUGH
In a small chamber of a quiet house in Glasgow, a girl was standing at the window and looking down the empty street.