It was the first time he had ever spoken of this mysterious woman. Delia fumbled in vain for the meaning.
“What was she like?” she asked.
He flushed and turned his frank eyes toward her.
“She had hair of the Campbell red, and curly like little oak leaves round her face; her eyes were like a wildcat’s, that the light runs in and out of; her mouth was bright as blood, and her face white and sharp; she coughed and shivered, her voice was very cold. I kissed her and she would have killed me for it—yet could it have been only that?—I think she was a Campbell.”
He sat up and gazed earnestly into the shadows where Delia sat; his plaid had fallen back and showed the rough hide coat underneath and the strong lines of his bare throat. Delia laughed.
“Whoever she was I think you love her, Macdonald,” she said.
“I want her,” he answered simply. “I want to look at her again, to touch her, to hear her. If she is a Campbell I hate her—yet I want her—and I cannot rest for this desire.”
Delia stood up; there was a gleam of satin as she moved, a quick rustle; she had her hands on her bosom and they rose and fell very quickly.
“Did she shoot you?” she asked.
“Yea,” he answered. “Against the mist I saw her harness shine, and like the sun was her yellow hair,—she leaned from the saddle and fired—but I had kissed her.” His breath came fast. He smiled. “I held her back against the rowan-tree, the berries all mingled with her fallen curls—I kissed her! She called out in your Southern tongue—then she said, “You have put that between us that I shall not forget,” and her white lids dropped till her red lashes touched her cheek—and I ... I cannot rest.”