“Ronald Macdonald,” she answered, “and son of the chief of his clan.”
“He may be trusted,” said Sir Perseus, “for his very simplicity. He could take letters to Lochiel, Glengarry, Keppoch—I know not about his gratitude. He is, I think, faithful.”
“I will answer for him,” said Delia. “Indeed, I can assure you of his great honesty.”
Jerome Caryl smiled.
“Why—you seem to know him very well, Miss Delia.”
She answered his look with a straight glance. “I have talked to him—he has told me things of himself and his people.”
“They come from Glencoe?”
“Yes,” she answered. “In our tongue, you know, it is the Glen of Weeping—they call it so because of the mists that hang there day and night—’tis an awful place in the heart of the Campbell country.”
“And they are murdering thieves, are they not?” questioned Jerome.
Delia lifted her strong face, flushed rosy from the fire: “I think these Highlanders have other standards than ours,” she said quietly. “They own stronger virtues and franker vices.”