The blood ran chill in her veins; her mouth twitched; and the intertwisted fingers of her hands were white and lifeless with the fierce grip that came of her fear.
But she was not a woman to be mastered by terror. With a quivering sigh she rose, looked round the room, forced herself to stare fixedly at the window, and then moved quietly to the door.
As soon as she felt the air upon her brows she became calm, and all dread left her.
"Is that you, Ian?" she whispered.
There was no one visible; no sound.
"Is that you, Alastair Macleod?"
So low was the utterance that, if any one had been there, he could scarce have heard it.
To her strained ears it was as though she heard a light susurrus of brushed dew: but it might be a wandering breath of air among the gale, or an adder moving through the grass, or a fern-owl hawking under the rowan-trees.
She waited a little; then, with a sigh of relief, re-entered the cottage and closed the door.
A glance at Lora showed her that the girl was sleeping unperturbed. For some time there after she sat by the fire, brooding over many things. Weary, at last, she rose, cast a farewell glance at the sleeper, and then slipped quietly to her bed in the adjoining room.