Delia Featherstonehaugh laughed as relief to the effect of the romantic wording of the soft tongue and the white coldness of the moonlight; she steadied herself with the thought of her brother and Jerome Caryl talking (very practically) below.
“You are free to go when you will, Macdonald,” she said. “Only—if you will see my brother first and take his message to the clans.”
She saw his eyes open, with a quick delight, she thought. He turned his face full toward her for the first time.
“I will do anything you wish,” he said. “If I may go at once—to-night.”
She stiffened and drew further away.
“Why not?” she answered. “You are well enough.” Her manner was unnaturally cold, but he took no heed of her; she waited for her answer in vain. “Why not?” she repeated at length. “We only kept you here during your sickness, Macdonald.”
Something in her tone seemed to ask for gratitude, the expression of some thankfulness for his life saved, but the inflection was too delicate for him to notice it.
“I will take your message,” he repeated. “Only you must not ask us to take the oaths to a Campbell.”
“Not to a Campbell,” she said. “To the Prince’s Government—but will you come and see my brother?”
Instinctive fear and dislike of the Southern struggled with the Macdonald’s desire for freedom; he reflected a while, then gave a grave consent.