And away she went through the thick breckan, holding on to the swaying leash that held the galloping grayhound, and running swiftly as though she had been making down for the shore to get out the Maighdean-mhara.
“Sheila,” called her husband, “don’t be foolish!”
“Sheila,” called Ingram, “have pity on an old man!”
Suddenly she stopped. A brace of partridges had sprung up at some distance, and, with a wild whirr of their wings, were now directing their low and rapid flight toward the bottom of the valley.
“What birds are those?” she said peremptorily.
She took no notice of the fact that her companions were pretty nearly too blown to speak. There was a brisk life and color in her face, and all her attention was absorbed in watching the flight of the birds. Lavender fancied he saw in the fixed and keen look something of old Mackenzie’s gray eye; it was the first trace of a likeness to her father he had seen.
“You bad girl!” he said, “they are partridges.”
She paid no heed to this reproach, for what were those other things over there underneath the trees? Bras had pricked up his ears, and there was a strange excitement in his look and in his trembling frame.
“Deer!” she cried, with her eyes as fixed as were those of the dog beside her.
“Well,” said the husband calmly; “what although they are deer?”