Ronald took no heed of any; his blue eyes were gazing blankly ahead; he walked in an absorbed gravity with his mouth set sternly.
They had crossed the moor and were entering a ravine between the hills, when Makian stopped, and looking back, motioned ahead.
A man on horseback with a following on foot was coming toward them.
They were near enough for the Macdonalds to distinguish the tartan of the Camerons, and the three lifted their bonnets as they drew close. The horseman raised his hat. He was a magnificent figure, bearing the dress and manners of a Lowlander, though about him was a Cameron plaid, and he spoke in pure Gaelic.
“Well met, Macdonald of Glencoe,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “You come from Kilchurn?”
“Yes,” frowned Makian. “And you, Ewen Cameron?”
The other laughed. “I go there,” he answered. “A tacksman of yours brought me a letter from King James—I must thank ye for the warning it contained,” he added. “I go now to twist what money I can wring out of my slippery cousin, Breadalbane.”
“Will ye take the oaths?” demanded Ian Macdonald.
Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel laughed again, and patted the neck of his black horse. “It were the wiser thing for ye to do,” he said. “Will you not profit by your own warning?”
Ronald broke in: