“Do not talk to me o’ Jock Campbell!” he cried.
“Ye did not maybe mark how he was decked in satin and velvet like a woman,” Ian interrupted.
“I had him under my sword—I had my hand on his wizened throat—when you, you fool, pulled me away. ’Tis you who, for shame, should not talk o’ Jock Campbell!”
Ronald flushed and his eyes darkened.
“Why—‘for shame’?” he questioned hotly.
Ian flung up his head with a laugh.
“Because the woman cozened ye—it was not for any motives of prudence, but to please the woman that ye saved his life.”
There was a little pause; peering through the gathering dusk Ian marked his brother’s face grow white, and he laughed again, good-naturedly enough.
“Will ye deny it?” he asked. “And little thanks ye got—‘I would kill ye,’ she said, and showed her teeth like a cat.”
Ronald stared at him as if he had not heard. “Is it not an awful thing,” he said very low, “that she should be Jock Campbell’s wife?”