I told her no; that I had always lived in England, though my mother was a Campbell. Her joy was the least thing in the world daunted, and in her voice there was a dash of starch.
“Oh! A Campbell!”
I smiled. ’Twas plain her clan was no friend to the sons of Diarmaid.
“My father was out in the ’15, and when he wass a wounded fugitive with the Campbell bloodhounds on his trail Mary Campbell hid him till the chase was past. Then she guided him across the mountains and put him in the way of reaching the Macdonald country. My father married her after the amnesty,” I explained.
The approving light flashed back into her eyes.
“At all events then I am not doubting she wass a good lassie, Campbell or no Campbell; and I am liking it that your father went back and married her.”
“But we are wasting time,” I urged. “What can I do for you? Where do you live? To whom shall I take you?”
She fell to earth at once. “My grief! I do not know. Malcolm has gone to France. He left me with Hamish Gorm in lodgings, but they will not be safe since——” She stopped, and at the memory of what had happened there the wine crept into her cheeks.
“And who is Malcolm?” I asked gently.