Sir Perseus gave him a rough map of his route from Glasgow to Glencoe, a pistol and a few crowns.
These last he respected as useless; he was doubtful, too, of the pistol, but finally stuck it in his belt. Jerome Caryl offered to see him on his way beyond the town gates.
Macdonald declined, gazing from his high window he had marked the gates and could well find them. With cordialities on the part of Sir Perseus, and shy reserve from the Highlander, they took leave of each other.
“I will light you,” said Delia.
She rose and took up a candle and led the way down-stairs; Ronald Macdonald, light-footed as a cat, followed.
In the narrow little hall she turned and faced him; in the circle of the candle-light her brown hair glittered with threads of gold and the yellow satin of her gown rippled into reflections and shadows.
“Maybe you will meet the lady with the red curls again,” she said.
He looked curiously at the Saxon woman who had nursed him; his blue eyes held some wonder; he had hardly realized her as yet.
“’Tis late to start on a journey,” continued Delia; “dark already.”
“Day and night are one to me,” he answered.