“Macdonald,” she repeated, then seemed to fumble for her words, “Do you understand?—you must take the oaths.” She laid her hand on the corner of his plaid with a timid eagerness that had its effect.
“We will go to Breadalbane’s conference,” he answered, “and if the others submit—”
“There must be no ‘if’!” she cried impetuously. “Don’t you see? Take the oaths or woe, woe to Glencoe! For the Campbells will get letters of fire and sword against you, and the whole strength of England would be behind them!”
He appeared to suddenly give heed to some of the danger threatening; his serious face darkened.
“Maybe we will take the oaths—” he answered gloomily, “but not to Breadalbane.”
“Lochiel, Glengarry and Keppoch will take them,” she said eagerly. “Why not you?”
He turned on her fiercely: “Ye are Saxon! Ye cannot fathom! We hate the Campbells!”
He loosened his plaid almost roughly from her grasp and was gone at a swinging pace down the empty street.
Delia stood where he had left her; she put her loosened hair back and stared after him; she shivered yet did not know it was cold; a few houses off a flickering oil lamp hung across the street; she waited for the great figure to show beneath it, thinking perhaps he might look back since there he reached the turn of the road.
She saw him pass from the moonlight into the lamplight, then disappear into the dark shadow of the houses beyond. He had not turned his head, but with light and quickened pace had gone.