THE
MASTER OF STAIR

BY

MARJORIE BOWEN

Author of The Viper of Milan

NEW YORK

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

MCMVII

Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips & Co.

Published April, 1907

To Mark Twain

with deep gratitude for the flattering interest

shown by a great man of letters in

the work of a beginner

CONTENTS

GLENCOE

In the Glen o’ Weeping,

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

Watch the giant hills are keeping

In their frozen wreaths o’ snow.

Tears from out the mists are falling

And the winds forever sigh

To the lonely eagle calling

As he circles through the sky,

With the blood o’ the Macdonalds

All red upon his claws,

The blood o’ the dead Macdonalds

Who broke the Campbell laws.

Through the Glen o’ Weeping,

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

Where the blighted trees are sleeping

And black the waters flow,

Where the dead lie in their darkness,

Their frozen hearth beside,

As the day glooms into darkness,

Come the living in their pride

Through the lines o’ dead Macdonalds

Lying naked to the blast,

Through the stern and still Macdonalds

Come the Campbells riding fast.

Now is the Glen o’ Weeping

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

Bright with light o’ swords upleaping

And flashing to and fro;

And gallant is the seeming

Of man and horse together

As with flying harness gleaming

They ride the trampled heather

Through the homes o’ the Macdonalds

Who lie defenseless, dumb,

Through the spilt blood o’ the Macdonalds

The victor Campbells come.

Now shall the Glen o’ Weeping,

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

When our noble heirs are reaping

The deeds that now we sow—

Lie desolate, forsaken,

Bleak to the brooding mist,

While we our way have taken,

By winged fortune kissed.

Swept from our path the Macdonalds,

Swept from our path away:

Now out o’ the Glen o’ Weeping,

Into the light o’ day!

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I
RONALD MACDONALD

Some fifty men were making slow progress through the pass of Glenorchy, which lies in the heart of Invernesshire and so in the very depths of the wild Highlands. A thick white mist hung over the landscape; it was the end of October and a raw and chilly day; the dull purple heather, disclosed now and then by the lifting vapor, the gaunt firs and faded bracken that grew along the pass, were shivering under the weight of dripping moisture.

The men strained their eyes to pierce the drifting mist, and drew closer the damp tartans that showed they were of the Clan of Macdonald; they were all on foot: some led shaggy ponies on whose rough backs were strapped packages and what appeared to be the plunder of some great house, for the objects included silver and gilt cups and goblets tied together by the handles; and, slung across the saddle, handsome garments such as the Saxons wore, and guns of a make not often seen in a Highlander’s hands.

A drove of fine cattle were driven in the rear of the Macdonalds, and a man who was obviously the leader walked a few paces ahead of the others. He was distinguished from his followers by the faded laced cloth coat under his plaid, the pistols in his belt, and his high cowskin boots, the others being barefoot and wearing nothing but their tartans and rude garments of untanned leather.

The mist began to lift a little, the dim forms of the surrounding mountains became visible; the leading Macdonald stopped his men and looked about him: the mist had confused even his innate knowledge of the country. Such of the landscape as they could see was pure desolation, vast brown hills and tracts of heather: there were no roads, not so much as a foot-path to guide them.

The only sign of life was an eagle who circled high above their heads, and now and then swept into view, screaming dismally.

The leader of the Macdonalds shuddered in the damp cold and was making the signal for his men to continue, when his quick ear caught a distant sound. He paused, the train of Highlanders motionless behind him.

It was the sound of the jingle of harness, the soft thud of horses’ hoofs on the heather: a party of horsemen riding near.

With the stealthy alertness of men who are always either hunters or hunted, the Macdonalds drew together in the pass; the foremost threw themselves flat on the ground and closed their hands round their dirks. The mist was closing round them again, but it was not so thick that they could not discern a group of horsemen crossing the pass at a swift trot. It was impossible to see how many there were; they were very swiftly gone, and utter silence fell again.

The Macdonalds began to move cautiously. The mist thickened so that they grew uneasy, their eyes were strained for another sight of the strangers, their ears for the sound of the bridle bells.

The eagle flew close, then past them and out of sight; they were feeling their way a step at a time, the ponies stumbled over the wet rocks the heather concealed, the men could hardly see each other. They began talking in whispers, wondering who these horsemen might have been, disputing about the way.

Then it came again, the thud thud of a horse.

The Macdonalds stopped dead; their leader softly cursed the mist and held himself on the alert.

It seemed to be only one horse now, and very close; they could hear it slipping among the rocks, the sound of the clinking harness, but they could see nothing. It died into the distance; the mist rose a little and they caught a sudden glimpse of a red figure on a dark horse in front of them, then they lost sight of it again in the thick vapor.

They pushed on slowly, teased with the faint sound of the unseen horsemen, ready for a stranger and enemy, yet baffled by the mist.

Suddenly the sound grew louder; the Macdonalds looked round fiercely. Their leader was almost thrown by the swift passing of a huge brown horse bearing a rider in a scarlet coat, who crossed in front of him and was swallowed into the mist. He had only a glimpse, and the bells were again tinkling in the distance; the horseman did not appear to have seen him, but as he passed a whip had struck Macdonald lightly on the face.

With a fierce cry the Highlander was plunging through the mist after him; the sound guided him; he ran forward swiftly, maddened by that slash on the cheek, striving to cleave aside the blinding fog.

All at once he heard it coming again, saw the brown horse looming toward him, and made a wild dash at the reins. But it swept past him. He thought he heard the rider say something or give a little cry.

The mist began to lighten, grow thinner; he saw the rider ahead and ran after him with his dirk undrawn. His strength was almost a match for the horse which was evidently very jaded and weary; his rider looked back and urged him faster, but the Macdonald was gaining.

It was clear enough now for him to see who he was pursuing. A slender figure in a scarlet roquelaure with the collar turned up to his ears, his beaver and feather hanging limp with the rain; both his dress and his horse were of the lowlands. The Macdonald’s eyes glowed at the sight of the Saxon; he was too stung to care that he had missed his men in the pursuit. He came on at a run, silently. The horseman had gained rising ground and stood outlined against the sky.

The mist changed to a drizzling rain: they were able to see each other distinctly; the tired horse stumbled and stopped, the rider wheeled him round and drew up, facing the Highlander. In the vast gloomy scene he was the only spot of color on his smooth bright chestnut horse with the glittering harness, with his vivid red coat and the long draggled brown feather hanging on his shoulders.

The Macdonald stopped a pace or two away from him that he might see who this Saxon could be, sitting very still and calm, with his head lifted—haughtily, it seemed. Then he cried out and fell back a step.

It was a woman who looked down at him from the brown horse: a proud, still woman’s face that showed in the high collar.

She calmly viewed his utter amazement, sitting utterly motionless, very upright.

After a second she spoke; slowly, in Gaelic.

“What do you want with me?”

Her voice sounded thin and unnatural coming through the vast open space; she broke her words with a cough and shuddered as if she was very cold.

The Macdonald had stood motionless, eagerly surveying her; when she spoke he came toward her slowly, with the caution and curiosity of a wild animal scenting the unknown.

She too looked at him, but covertly, and her face expressed no interest as her eyes dwelt on his magnificent figure and torn and faded clothes; she waited for him without a movement or a word.

As he came to her saddle bow he pulled off his bonnet and stood erect in the straight rain, his frank blue eyes on her face.

“My name is Ronald,” he said, “and I am a prince of the Macdonalds of Glencoe.”

The horsewoman coughed and shivered again before she answered; she had noted the half-sullen, half-proud defiance of his bearing and replied to that:

“Why do you speak so?” she said. “You give your speech a turn of bitterness.”

He came still closer and laid his hand on her fallen reins.

“I thought you were a Campbell,” he said, and watched for the effect of the loathed name on her; there was none; she merely shook her head.

“I am a stranger,” she answered. “I came with my kinsfolk on a mere family affair—”

His face lightened.

“I saw them through the mist,” he said.

She looked round her.

“And now the mist hath gone and I am utterly lost.” She shivered.

Suddenly she glanced down at him; he was very young, of a giant’s make; his square cut fresh face, tanned the color of ripe corn, looked up at her; his clear eyes were very steady under the rough brown hair; she gave a slow faint smile.

“Are you too lost?” she asked.

“It were not possible for me to lose my way to Glencoe,” he answered. “But I have missed my men.”

He was still studying her with a frank absorbed curiosity; she pushed her heavy rain-soaked hat a little off her face and at sight of her red-blonde hair, he cried out, fiercely:

“Ye are a Campbell!”

Her face expressed a cold surprise.

“I am Helen Fraser,” she said quietly, “and no kin to the Clan of Campbell.”

It would have been difficult to disbelieve her unconcern; Macdonald hesitated, not knowing what to do.

“Will you put me on my way?” she asked as a probe to his silence. “I am wet and cold—and most utterly lost.”

At the note in her voice all his Highland hospitality woke.

“Will you come to Glencoe?” he asked simply.

She shook her head. “I must find my people,” she said resolutely. “Tell me the way—they ride in the direction of Glenorchy.”

Macdonald’s eyes flashed.

“Jock Campbell’s castle—you go there!” he cried.

“I go that way—not there,” she answered, “but to Loch Awe.”

He was appeased again. “Glenorchy is three miles from here,” he said. “And Glencoe some ten—as you are a woman I will go with you to find your people.”

She made no show of either gratitude or refusal. “I shall die of cold,” she said impatiently. “Take the bridle and lead the way.”

The drizzle had settled into a steady downpour; the sky was a merciless even gray; the distant hills wreathed with heavy rain clouds, the gloomy rocks about them running with water.

Macdonald took the horse’s head in silence and led him across the squelching heather. They were at the top of the ravine; the country before them was broken and utterly wild, but he had no fear of losing his way while he had the use of his eyes. The woman shuddered closer into her coat. “Put me on the road to Glenorchy,” she said. “My people will be looking for me.”

“Would you not be afraid alone, Helen Fraser?” he asked.

“No,” she answered quietly.

“Are you friendly with the Clan of Campbell?” he said, “for you must cross their lands.”

“I know nothing of them,” came the tired voice from the great collar. “But—I say—I am not afraid.”

He was silent again; he knew little or nothing of the distant Clan of Frasers, he marveled at the dress and refined appearance of this woman: he had never seen any but the Campbell’s women in this Lowland habit.

Neither spoke as they wound through the rocks and heather; he at the horse’s head, heedless of the cold and rain; she huddled on the saddle, shivering under it.

She spoke at last so suddenly that he turned with a start.

“Who are those?” she said.

He looked in the direction her gloved hand pointed.

From the branch of a great fir-tree two men were dangling, the rain dripping forlornly from their soaked clothes and the fair hair that fell over their dead faces.

“Campbells,” answered Macdonald. “Would there were more than two.”

She turned her gaze from the dead men; her face was utterly unmoved.

“How you hate these Campbells, Macdonald of Glencoe,” she said curiously.

He was bewildered by her note of wonder, turned it over in his mind and could think of nothing to say but:

“I am a prince of the Macdonalds.”

“God fend me from these feuds!” she cried. “My people live at peace.”

“They would not, Helen Fraser, if they were two hundred men alone in the country of the Campbells.” He looked at her over his shoulder, his color risen. “To one side of us we have MacCallum More himself—to the other Jock Campbell of Breadalbane and his vassals swarm in their hundreds—but we do no homage—because there has been no Campbell yet dare enter Glencoe.”

He had stopped with the force of his words and his fierce eyes measured her narrowly.

She gave her slow smile:

“Well—go on,” she said. “I have no call to be the Campbells’ friend.”

He went on at his steady even pace and she said no more.

They were crossing a level tract of moor; once she looked back at the men on the fir-tree; the rain was blotting them from sight, but she could see them faintly, dark against the sky.

Presently the dismal screaming of a bird of prey broke the desolate stillness.

“There is an eagle—has found a meal,” remarked Macdonald.

“How he skrieks!” she answered, and leaning from the saddle peered forward. “Look—ahead of us—”

A great brown eagle was hovering a few feet off the ground and another circled slowly above him.

“What have they found?” whispered the woman. She looked half-eagerly, half-fearfully; they were near enough for her to see a tumbled heap of plaid in the heather with something smooth and shining white in the midst.

The eagle wheeled his slow flight closer and she saw that his beak dripped with blood.

“Who are those he feeds on?” she asked very low.

Macdonald turned the horse’s head away from the eagle’s orgy.

“It is Campbell’s tartan and a Campbell’s skull,” he said. “What else?”

She was still straining her eyes after the ghastly bundle they were leaving behind them.

“It is a woman!” she cried.

“Yes,” he answered, “we got her yesterday from Jock Campbell’s house—we burnt a house of his two days ago—you could see the flames from here.” His eyes sparkled with pride. “They were three to one,” he added, “but the Campbells always fight like Lowlanders.”

She put her hand to a face grown ghastly white.

“You keep your eagles well fed,” she said. “I would not be a Campbell in your hands, Macdonald of Glencoe!”

He looked up, puzzled at her tone; he had not properly seen her face nor could he see it now for the collar and the hat; it occurred to him that she did not understand the bitterness of this hate.

“There is the sword and the flame between us two,” he said. “A Campbell has not broken bread with a Macdonald for a thousand years—we are the older race and by craft they have the mastery.”

“Of the whole Highlands, I do think,” she put in.

“Yes,” he cried fiercely. “But not Glencoe—we have that yet, and we harry them and goad them to curses and slay them, and thwart them though we are but two hundred—now my tacksman return home with the plunder of Jock o’ Breadalbane’s house—we left his door-step wet with blood, not for the first time!”

She caught her breath.

“Some day you will pay the price,” she said, “for he has the Saxons and the Southrons behind him—he is a mighty man.”

The Highlander flung up his head. “Let the Saxons try to reach Glencoe,” he said grimly. “Let Jock Campbell turn his claymores out to touch us here—there will be more blood for the eagles at Strath Tay!”

She lapsed into silence again; the rain was growing colder, changing into a fine sleet; she was numb and frozen.

“Give me rest,” she said faintly, “or I die—is there not one hut in all this barrenness?”

He looked surprised that her endurance should be exhausted already; hesitated with a desire to be rid of her encumbrance.

She put out her hand and touched him delicately on the shoulder; for the first time he saw her eyes, green and very bright, as she leaned forward.

“Ah,” she said very softly. “You would not leave me—when I am lost—or make me ride when I am like to faint—find me shelter for awhile, Macdonald!”

“I would not have left you,” he answered, “and though I know none of you, Helen Fraser, I will find you shelter.”

There was a wattled hut near by, often used as an outpost by the Macdonalds in their plundering raids; he turned toward it now; it was very little off the road to Glenorchy.

Helen Fraser looked at his great figure before her, his resolute strength, his firm face, and she gave a little inscrutable smile.

CHAPTER II
THE KISS

Ronald Macdonald had kindled a peat fire in the hut and strengthened it with dried fir boughs from the stack of wood in the corner.

A bright flame leaped up and showed the rude interior, the mud walls, the earth floor, the rough-hewn log seat and the figure of Helen Fraser taking off her dripping red coat.

She flung it over the log, swept off her hat and stood straight and slim in her close brown dress, while she held her hands over the flame.

Macdonald, leaning against the wall, looked at her and wondered.

She was young and very slender; eminently graceful; her hands were perfect; she had an oval, clear white face, a thin scarlet mouth, eyes narrow and brilliant, arched red brows and a quantity of red-blonde hair that hung damp and bright onto her shoulders.

Macdonald had never seen a woman of this make before; now he had her close and could study her at his ease, he found her grace and self-possession wonderful things. The sight of her hair as she shook it out to dry made his face cloud for a moment. “’Tis the Campbell color,” he said.

She smiled over her shoulder. “I did not know that till to-day,” she answered. “Many of the Fraser’s women have hair like this.”

She took up the long curls in her white hand, and held them in the firelight where they glittered ruddy gold. Her green eyes surveyed him.

They looked at each other so a full minute—then he spoke.

“Why did you strike me when you rode past?”

She gave a sudden laugh.

“My whip slipped—I meant it for the horse,” she said, “not for you, Macdonald of Glencoe—why should I?”

The thick peat smoke, that circled round the hut before it found the rude aperture that served as a chimney, made her cough and shudder.

“Where are we now?” she asked.

“By the entrance to Glenorchy,” he answered, gazing hard at her.

“Ah,” she said, “Jock Campbell’s lands—his castle lies there, you said?”

She was leaning against the wall; her eyes indifferently on the smoke and flame; then suddenly she lifted them and Macdonald started; they were such a vivid color, green as those of a wildcat.

“You are bold to come so near Glenorchy when you have burnt Jock of Breadalbane’s house,” she smiled.

“He is in the Lowlands,” Macdonald answered. “And I have said—no Campbell would follow where I go—to Glencoe—though Campbell of Breadalbane is serpent-cunning and very full of lies.”

“You hate him very deeply?” she questioned.

His frank eyes flew wide.

“He is the loathed devil of all the Campbells,” he cried, “surely you know that?”

She gave a little laugh.

“What are his qualities?” she asked. “Why do you hate him so?”

“Ask every soul in the Highlands or the Lowlands,” he answered fiercely, “and if ye find one to say a good word for Jock Campbell—then will I tell ye of his qualities.”

He came across the hut and stood towering over her.

“I do mistrust you,” he said. “I think you are over quiet.”

She drew herself a little closer against the wall, the green eyes glittered up at him.

“I think you are a Campbell,” said Macdonald, breathing hard.

“By Christ, I am not,” she answered resolutely. “Nor any friend of theirs.”

There was a little pause, the heavy sweep of the rain without came distinctly, mournfully, and a low wind howled through the rough window.

Macdonald gazed into her eyes: she did not wince, but suddenly smiled; the color came into her cheeks.

“Ye have a wonderful face, Helen Fraser,” he said. “Are you a princess of the clan?”

“I am Lord Fraser’s daughter,” she answered, “and heiress of our family.”

“They should be proud of you,” said Macdonald. “Are you a maid or wife?”

“I am unwed,” she said, “and am ever like to be, for I do find it hard to love.”

He turned away from her and pointed to the log.

“Will you sit?” he said with a grave courtesy.

She complied at once with a deepening of her smile.

In one corner was a pile of skins; Macdonald lifted these and brought out from under them two goblets of pure gold.

As he raised them he looked at the woman; she showed through the cloudy smoke brown and gold and brilliant; her hair was as vivid as the little tongues of flame she held her hands over.

“From the Campbells,” he said, putting the goblets down, “and this from the King—in France.”

He brought out a slender bottle of wine and stripped off the wicker covering.

“We keep these things hidden here,” he explained, “so that when any cannot reach the Glen they may find food.”

He turned over the skins and heather till he found a rough cake of grain. Helen Fraser rose and came up behind him.

“Are these your takings from the Campbells?” she asked, and picked the goblets up. They were very handsomely engraved with the arms of John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane.

Macdonald lifted the glittering wine with an eager smile.

“We drink as royally as Jock Campbell with his Lowland luxuries,” he cried. “This is King’s wine.”

She held out one of the goblets while he filled it and let the other drop.

He put his lips to it, then held it out to her with something like a challenge in his eyes.

“Drink with me, Helen Fraser.”

She took it, drank, and gave it back to him with the same unmoved smile.

“Now we are pledged friends,” he cried. “But wait—ye shall break bread with me—”

“I cannot eat,” she said. “Believe me—I am sick with weariness.”

He looked at her keenly over the brim of the brilliant wine-cup.

“Ye shall do it,” he said. “I would be allied with thy clan.”

He broke the bread and salt that to him formed a rite impossible to violate and gave it her with eager blue eyes on her face.

She took it slowly, afraid to show reluctance, and ate a little while he watched her closely.

Then he put one of the skins on the log and another under her feet, and stirred up the fire to give her warmth.

She had become very silent; she took his care with no thanks, passively, but all the while her jewel-like eyes were covertly studying him.

He came and sat opposite to her; his huge shadow dancing behind him. Between them lay her steaming red coat, the gold wine-cups, and the elegant French bottle, brilliant on the mud floor.

Outside the rain was coming down less heavily, but the wind had risen and they could hear the rocking of the fir-trees.

She spoke at last, in her quiet voice: “Do you go to the conference Breadalbane holds at Glenorchy?” she asked. “You know he calls the Highlands thither to treat of peace—and loyalty to the new King.”

Macdonald laughed:

“And the gold he hath to buy us fills his own coffers—there will be no peace while Jock Campbell treats,” he answered.

“But many great chiefs have gone,” she said, “And the whole force of the new King is behind Breadalbane—”

“We may go,” replied Macdonald. “But we will not take the oaths.”

Another silence fell; she stirred the smoldering peat with her foot; he seemed to be utterly absorbed in watching her; she had taken his wild fancy most suddenly, most completely.

“I must go on,” she said at last. “They will be searching for me.”

She rose and put back her glittering hair.

“And I will go with you,” said Macdonald, rising too.

She looked over her shoulder; seemed to hesitate, a drift of the peat smoke floated between them, through it he saw her face, white, calm, and her narrow, brilliant eyes.

She picked up her damp coat and hat.

“I can go alone if you will put me on my road to Loch Awe,” she said. “It cannot be far.”

“Too far for you alone,” he cried. “You—surely you are afraid?”

Helen Fraser put on her coat and turned up the great collar before she answered.

“And are not you afraid to go any further through Jock Campbell’s lands?”

He was stung by her poise and strangeness. “Helen Fraser, ye are mad to think to go alone!”

She had caught up her hat and very swiftly opened the rough door.

The first blast of the wind made her shudder, but she stepped out into the rain with a resolute carriage.

Her horse was tethered close under some fir-trees: his glittering harness was the only bright thing in the gloomy landscape; he lifted his head at sight of his mistress and she turned toward him.

But she was stopped by Macdonald’s hand on her shoulder.

“Look about ye, Helen Fraser—and think if ye would go alone!”

She glanced at him and then about her; below them the river Orchy, tumbled through the ravine, about them the mountains towered into the mist, to either side were great broken spaces of heather, moss and bog; straight before them ran a strip of dirty white road that wound through the Glen of Orchy. Over all was the veil of the pitiless rain and the sound of the tossing fir-trees.

Helen Fraser, erect, bareheaded, looked on it unmoved.

“Where does that road lead?” she asked.

Macdonald’s blue eyes flashed.

“To Castle Kilchurn—Jock Campbell’s house,” he answered. “Not your way—your kinsfolk can have no business there.”

“No,” she said, and coughed and shivered. She gave no sign of where she was going or upon what errand she and her clan were bound, and he, having broken bread with her, would not deign to question; she might be concerned in some of the intricate politics or feuds of the Highlands; he felt it no matter of his, but he also felt he would not lose sight of her so easily.

She spoke again, suddenly:

“I would rather go alone—I can find my way—I have been here before.”

A great color came into Macdonald’s face; he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her round so that she faced him.

“Why do you so loathe my company?” he demanded. “I am a prince.”

She breathed a little heavily to feel him holding her—but her face was unmoved.

“I have a friendship for you and all the Macdonalds,” she said.

“Well, prove it,” he answered eagerly.

“Let go of me,” she said a little unsteadily. “I have broken bread—and drunk with ye.” She shook her head, tossing the damp red curls off her white forehead and her lips trembled a little.

“Let go of me,” she repeated.

He looked at her steadily and smiled: “The witches of the mountains have brought us together, Helen Fraser—I shall find you again—and as a pledge—ye shall kiss me.”

“I will not,” she answered. “Take your hands away, Macdonald of Glencoe!”

But he held her gently against the mud walls of the hut; heedless of her shudder under his touch.

A great rowan-bush full of dull berries grew close; her scarlet dress pressed against the dripping leaves as she drew as far as she was able away from him.

“Ye shall—” he said simply. “Why not?”

She was still and quiet though she saw she was helpless.

“We are strangers,” she said quickly.

“I would not have it so,” he answered eagerly. “Through war or peace I would be a friend to thee and thine—and I would have thy kiss on it—so that there may never be feud between mine and thine—kiss me, Helen Fraser!”

She crushed further into the rowan-tree and gave one quick glance round the utter desolation.

“No!” she said. “No! I—”

But her words were stifled, for he had caught her up to him—and kissed her lightly, full on the mouth.

Like flames piercing ice a sudden passion flared from her calm; she called out something fiercely in the Lowland language that he could not understand, and wrenched away with the furious color in her face.

“A Macdonald’s kiss will not harm ye!” he cried hotly, roused by her wrath.

At the sight of his face she controlled herself and set her lips.

“Ye have done what ye wished,” she said unsteadily. “Put something between us that I shall remember.” She was trembling; passionately clasping and unclasping her hands; he came toward her; she clutched at the reins of her horse and leaped into the saddle.

She flung on her hat, her eyes shone through the floating feather and hair; she had a perfect seat in the saddle; Macdonald noticed how gloriously she sat and how her proud look became her face.

“I am very glad to come with ye,” he said, his fair face flushed. “I will not leave ye, Helen Fraser, until ye find your kinsfolk.”

She had one hand in the pocket of her coat. Her green eyes were on him; she suddenly spurred her horse forward.

Macdonald taken by surprise, stood still a moment, then impulsively came after her. He saw her turn in the saddle with something glittering in her hand. The next second the report of a pistol rang out; a flash of fire through the rain.

Ronald Macdonald cried out and fell on his side, shot through the ankle.

A sweep of color came into her face as she saw his plaid prone on the heather; she thrust the smoking pistol into her holster and turned her horse’s head down the white road that led to Castle Kilchurn.

CHAPTER III
JOCK O’ BREADALBANE’S WIFE

Loch Awe lay vast and gloomy under the gray skies; it was twilight and the sky burnt gold and purple with the last of the setting sun behind Castle Kilchurn. Though it no longer rained, great black clouds lay over the distant mountains and a thick mist hung over the placid water. The castle itself, standing huge and magnificent on the tongue of land that runs into the loch at the foot of Ben Cruachan, bore on the Gothic turrets the English standard: a symbol of the authority with which the government had invested the Earl of Breadalbane.

Along the road that wound by the edges of the loch to the castle, rode a woman in a scarlet cloak.

The vast expanse of cloudy sky, the huge outlines of misty mountains, the gloomy castle and the great storm-twisted fir-trees were all tinged with an air of awe and melancholy.

The woman and her bright brown horse were reflected among the shadows of the broken clouds in the still water; she rode slowly with her face lifted to the flaring sky and her red hair blown back from her face.

There were lights in the windows of the Castle Kilchurn, and the outer gates stood open.

The horsewoman rode through and up to the great entrance, where she alighted. Before she had time to knock, four or five servants came hurrying across the courtyard to take her horse, and the door was flung wide.

She silently entered the vast stone hall, and looked about her; a couple of white hounds came running up to her; a gray-haired butler stepped forward. She asked him in Saxon:

“Is my lord here yet?”

“Nay, my lady; he is looking for your ladyship, when he found ye were missing, he returned to find ye, my lady.”

“Let one go after him,” she answered, “to say I am arrived—is my cousin, Colin, here?”

“Yea, my lady; and all the other gentlemen.”

She flung off her damp coat and ascended the great, bare unfurnished stairs.

On the first landing she came into a glare of light that fell through an open door; servants were passing to and fro, and there was the sound of many voices.

She entered; stood in the doorway looking down the room.

It had been the dining-hall of the old castle; it was a large room with tapestry on the walls and a huge log fire burning on the hearth.

Round the black oak table a party of gentlemen were dining by the light of a hundred candles. At sight of the woman in the doorway they all rose with one exclamation:

“The Countess Peggy!”

She came down the room smiling.

“Ye did expect I had fed the eagles by now?” she asked. “Weel, I’ll no be saying but I was fearfu’ of it mysel’—welcome to Kilchurn, gentlemen—gude even to ye, Colin.”

She held out her hand to the gentleman at the head of the table and took her place beside him, while the others reseated themselves.

“So my lord wanders on the mountains searching for me?” she said. “And ye’ll no be having a great opinion of my wits for getting lost.”

The green eyes glanced round; some ten men were seated there; all fair-haired, unmistakably of one race, her own, Campbells with keen faces.

“I was no greatly fearing for ye,” said her cousin, Colin Campbell of Ardkinglass. “Ye will be knowing these parts vera weel, I thought ye could find your way to Kilchurn.”

The Countess Peggy laughed.

“Weel, I’m blithe to be out of the mist and wet,” she said. “Albeit I have gotten a great cold.”

“Ye didna’ come in with any of the murdering Hielandmen?” asked one of the gentlemen.

The Countess poured out some wine and drank it before she answered.

“Yea—I was put on my way by one of the Glencoe men.”

A murmur ran round the table.

“Macdonald o’ Glencoe!”

Lady Breadalbane’s green eyes flashed: “Ay,” she said. “He’d been thieving an’ murdering—burning one of my lord’s houses, he said. He showed me Campbells rotting on the trees and—”

She checked herself abruptly; her keen glance roved round the grim Campbell faces. “I think we’ve taken enough from these Macdonalds of Glencoe,” she said slowly.

There was a little deadly pause; it was not easy for a Campbell to voice his feelings for a Macdonald.

It was the Countess who spoke first: “They’re vera simple, these savages; I told him I was a Fraser.”

“It was wise,” remarked her cousin dryly. “If he had kenned ye were Breadalbane’s wife, weel, ye wouldna’ be here noo.”

“Indeed, they do hate my lord,” she answered. “I had to listen to some miscalling of Jock Campbell—as they name him.” Her thin lips curled into a bitter smile. “I tried to sound him about this conference—ye ken—this matter my lord has on hand for quieting the Hielands—‘we’ll never take the oaths’—he says—‘Jock Campbell’s got the money in his coffers for himsel’—we may come,’ he says, ‘but we’ll enter into no treaty with a Campbell.’”

“Puir fules,” said one of the company. “They think we want them to be taking the oaths to King William?”

“They’re no’ so simple as that,” answered another. “But they consider the new government’ll need something for its money—an’ if a Campbell can’t quiet the Hielands—some one else can try—it’s plain they’re bent on ruining the negotiations out of spite to Breadalbane.”

The Countess Peggy set her wine-glass down fiercely: “Weel,” she said, “’tis the end of October noo, an’ they must take the oaths by January—they’ve been dallying for two years—but I’m no’ thinking either we or the government will be taking any more.”

“Lochiel and Glengarry show signs of yielding,” said Colin Campbell, “though they demand, ye ken, too much of the money—and Coll a’ the Cows, the ould murdering thief, he’ll come in to save his ugly neck—but Macdonald of Glencoe will na’.”

“I dinna think we shall be troubled as how to treat them,” answered another. “They’ll be rebels—it’ll be a fine chance to be clearing the country of a den of thieves.”

The Countess Peggy’s eyes flashed at the speaker a meaning look.

“My lord’ll be equal to them,” she smiled.

In their hearts they all assented; they knew the Earl of Breadalbane, ruthless and cunning even for a Campbell; of a fine ability and a power that made him next to his cousin Argyll, the master of the Highlands; and these kinsmen of his, a body-guard of Campbells kept always about him, regarded him with a respect that only great cunning, great falseness and great power could have engendered in their shrewd souls.

Dinner over, they rose; they had come from Edinburgh that day and were mostly weary.

The Countess Peggy, whose masterful spirit they obeyed, dismissed them.

She was going to wait up for the Earl, she said, and needed no company.

It was hardly late yet; but the Campbells were never of a roistering spirit; most of them went to bed; the Countess waited alone in the dining-hall.

It was full of the mellow light of candles and the bright glow of the fire; the arms and trophies of the chase on the tapestried walls glittered in points of light.

She seated herself in a large oak chair that almost concealed her slender figure; her buckle shoes were held out to the blaze; her fine, thin face was outlined against the ruby head cushion; she sighed, finding herself tired.

One of the boar-hounds had found its way in and lay by her side; her long white hand hung idly down and caressed his silky ears; all her movements were very graceful; her body as supple as her face was unmoved and hard.

The heavy clock in the corner had struck ten, but she gave no sign of impatience; her lids drooped over her brilliant eyes, though her firm, thin mouth was unrelaxed.

It struck the half-hour. She looked round; the table was set, nothing was wanting for her husband’s welcome; she lapsed into musing again.

Presently she started into alertness; there was a sound without; the door opened suddenly.

“Jock!” she cried and sprang up.

A slight gentleman in a shining cuirass stood in the doorway.

In a second the dog was at his side and the woman half way down the room with out-held hands to meet him.

“Jock!” she said again; the change in her was wonderful; she flushed into an animated color, all hardness left her face; with sparkling eyes and parted lips she came to him.

“Weel,” he smiled, “I didna’ think ye would be lost on your own Hielands.” He stooped and kissed her; then with a sudden half-laugh to hide the unsteadiness in his voice:

“Ye gave me a bitter moment, Peggy, when I found ye had missed us.”

“’Twas the mist!” she cried. “I dropped my whip and turned back for it—then the mist thickened; ah, my dear, ye canna ken how lonesome I felt alone in the wild hills.”

She trembled; her overwrought control leaving her at sight of him; he led her to the table and drew her down beside him; he was more relieved at sight of her safe in Kilchurn than he would have cared to put into words, and it was with a sigh of relief that she looked at him; she had had disturbing visions of the wild Macdonalds meeting the hated Breadalbane.

She sank on a little stool beside him while he eat his supper, with her green eyes, very soft now, on his face.

He was a man of a remarkable appearance; of a very elegant build and upright carriage, though barely of the middle height; his face was thin and hollow in the cheeks, his lower jaw projecting gave him a sinister expression; his nose, a high aquiline, his eyes large, light gray and very restless; his thick brown hair of a blond so pale that it appeared gray.

There was an air of great delicacy and dignity about him; he smiled continually, but taken without the smile the face was hard and cruel.

When he looked at his wife, however, it entirely softened and his unpleasant eyes flashed into a passion that redeemed them as she caught his free hand and laid it against her cheek.

“’Tis the last time I lose sight of ye when we cross the Hielands, Peggy,” he said. “Did ye meet any?”

“Yea,” she answered under her breath; “a Macdonald o’ Glencoe.”

The Earl turned in his chair with a flash of steel and gold.

“One of those thieves!” he cried. “What did he do?”

A deep color came into her face.

“He showed me the way,” she said. “He showed me also Campbells he’d slain—he showed plunder from your house—he named you devil—and—”

“Ah, he didna’ ken ye were a Campbell?” asked Breadalbane.

“Why no, Jock—I told him I was a Fraser—I didna’ desire to be murdered.”

“Ye will have deceived him,” remarked the Earl. “Ye are a bonnie liar, Peggy.”

He gave the strange compliment in all sincerity and so she took it.

“But ye hav’na’ heard the finish,” she said. “Jock—will ye ever forgive me?”

She lifted eager glowing eyes and laid her hand on his arm.

Breadalbane put down his wine-glass.

“Weel?” he questioned. “Ye look ower serious, Peggy.”

She gave a great shudder as at the remembrance of something loathly.

“I have broken bread with a Macdonald,” she cried bitterly. “And—”

“Weel?” he insisted.

“And then—by force—he kissed me, Jock.”

The Earl’s hollow face flushed scarlet.

“A Macdonald o’ Glencoe kissed ye!” he cried.

“Ay,” she answered passionately. “But I dinna think he’ll live to boast of it. I left him on the mountain, shot through the ankle.”

“It should have been his heart,” said Breadalbane grimly.

“Yes, I ken, but I couldna’—’tis work for you, Jock, not for me—I just shot to prevent his following me—’tis likely he’ll die of hardship.” She rose restlessly to her feet.

“I wish he hadna’ kissed me,” she cried. “A Macdonald o’ Glencoe!”

Breadalbane’s pale eyes flashed and narrowed, but he spoke quietly:

“The Macdonalds and I will come to issues yet, Peggy—and then—by Heaven! I shallna’ forget this.”

“Ah, I ken, Jock—but I would he hadna’ kissed me.”

Her face flushed and trembled; the Earl set his mouth dangerously as he marked her wrathful distress; he held his hand out to her and she very passionately caught hold of it.

“We’ve taken enough from these Macdonalds,” she cried. “I saw the plunder of a house of yours to-day—and murdered Campbells feeding the eagles—”

She swung round on him with tears gathering in her eyes: “Jock, ye are almost master in the Hielands; are ye going to leave this knot of thieves in your midst to harry and insult ye?”

“Nay,” cried Breadalbane fiercely. “I’m only waiting, ye ken—ye canna touch the Glencoe men openly—ye might as weel try to hunt the eagles off Ben Cruachan as the Macdonalds out o’ Glencoe—but if they dinna take the oaths—” He finished with one of his sudden smiles.

“Yea,” said the Countess Peggy breathlessly. “Ye’ll have the government behind ye then, they’ll be rebels and proscribed men—ye’ll have them in your hand, Jock. Ah, but do ye think they willna’ take the oaths?”

Breadalbane drew her down beside him and kissed her flushed forehead.

“Dinna fear, Peggy; not ane of the Hielanders will take the oaths—or if Glengarry or Lochiel do, the Macdonalds willna’.”

“Ah!” she took a deep breath. “And then ye will have the law to help ye.”

“I shall get letters of fire and sword from the government,” said Breadalbane, “and clear the Hielands of the Macdonalds.”

There fell a little pause; the two utterly absorbed in themselves and each other did not notice or heed the falling fire and guttering candles or the lifting wail of the storm without.

The Countess spoke; under her breath:

“But at Edinburgh—in England, where they want the Hielands quiet—will they no demand an account of ye?—will they support ye?”

The room was growing cold; unconsciously she felt it and shivered, drawing closer to her husband.

“I have the most powerful man in Scotland behind me,” said the Earl slowly. “And he has great weight in England—is a close friend of the King—and he is no’ willing for the Hielands to take the oaths.”

“Who do you mean?” she questioned eagerly.

A dying log on the hearth fell and broke into a shower of sparks; a gust of wind blew down the chimney.

“The Master of Stair,” said Breadalbane. “Being the Secretary and a close friend of the King, he can do what he will with Scotland.”

“Yet I do think he is the most hated man in the country,” mused the Countess. “I did notice a fury of hate in Edinburgh against his father and him—he couldna’ be more unpopular.”

“I dinna care,” smiled Breadalbane. “He has the power—and a fine ability. He wasna’ for buying the Hielands. Put the money into powder and shot, he said—and now, when we’ve been dealing with them for two years in vain—he says the same.”

“Weel, then,” she cried. “All ye have to do is to wait till after the first day of January. Then get the letters of fire and sword—and the Master of Stair will support ye.”

“Both he and his father,” he answered. “Both the Dalrymples. If any take the oaths, weel, they’ll be within the law—but, as the King said to Balcarras—let those who stay without the law, look to it—as they must expect to be left to the law.”

He rose abruptly and crossed to the fire, where the last light from the glowing embers was reflected in his cuirass.

His wife followed him with shining eyes; it was the first time even she had so enjoyed his confidence; the first time he had so spoken of his affairs, though he had always been assured of her passionate sympathy. He fell into silence as he leaned against the heavy chimneypiece and she noticed that his delicate face had fallen into lines of weariness.

“Ye look tired, Jock,” she said tenderly.

“Unlace me,” he smiled. “This thing is heavy.”

She came up and unstrapped his armor; as he shook himself free of it, he gave a sigh of relief.

“I shallna’ need to be riding my own lands armed when the Macdonalds of Glencoe are—weel, treated as to their desserts,” he remarked as he shook out his crumpled buff coat.

As she laid down his cuirass he spoke again:

“What was the name of this Macdonald to-day?” he asked quietly.

“Ronald—the chief’s son he said,” she answered.

Breadalbane yawned, then glanced with half-shut eyes at his sword hilt.

“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he said—“maybe the laddie will live.”

He glanced at his wife.

“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he repeated. “Weel, a Campbell always has a vera gude memory.”

CHAPTER IV
DELIA FEATHERSTONEHAUGH

In a small chamber of a quiet house in Glasgow, a girl was standing at the window and looking down the empty street.

The November evening was closing in; the room somber and gloomy at any time, was in darkness save for the fire over which a young man sat, writing on a paper that he held on his knee. The firelight showed a resolute brown face, close-clipped brown hair and a large figure very plainly clad in a neat, dark cloth suit.

The scanty furniture consisted of a bureau, a few chairs, and a small table piled with papers.

“He is late, Perseus,” said the girl in a tired voice. “It struck four some time since.”

Both her accent and her face marked her as English; when the man glanced up it was easy to see he was her brother.

“He will come,” he said quietly. “Why not?” And he fell to his busy writing again.

“Why not?” echoed the girl impatiently. “I think, Perseus, there are many reasons why a gentleman in King James’s service may not cross England and Scotland in perfect safety.”

“I have perfect confidence in Jerome Caryl,” answered her brother, this time without an upward look. “A man who has been an adventurer all his life knows how to play the spy.”

She let the curtain fall.

“I wish you would not use that word, Perseus,” she said vexedly.

With a half-humorous sigh Sir Perseus Featherstonehaugh put aside the writing he could no longer see.

“My sweet Delia,” he said. “We—Jerome, you, and I and all our friends represent a losing or a lost cause—”

“A rightful one,” she put in.

“Certainly,” he smiled, “but unfortunately at the present, a lost one—we are, my dear, without the law—in plain English, Jacobite spies dabbling in high treason—I want you to understand that, Delia.”

His voice fell to gravity on the last words, but the girl bit her lip and tapped her foot impatiently.

“While we have King James’s countenance we can never be spies—or guilty of treason in outwitting his enemies,” she said impetuously.

“Nay,” answered Sir Perseus, “but we may be hanged, my dear.”

Delia Featherstonehaugh flung up her head: “And we may give the King again his kingdom,” she smiled.

“God grant it,” answered her brother gently, “but before we go any further—before we hear Jerome’s news, before we make any more plans—I want you to see it as it is—Delia, we are staking our lives in the King’s service.”

“But you would not turn back!” she cried.

“Why, no,” he answered. “But you are not bound to follow my fortunes.”

Delia swept into the center of the room, her heavy satin dress rustling; a noble dim figure in the dusk.

“Are you not all I have, Perseus?” she said unsteadily. “Is it so long ago since father was slain by the Boyne and we vowed to serve the King he died for? Oh, my dear, why should you think I want to turn aside into placid safety?”

“Delia!” Sir Perseus held out his hand, “’tis only that sometimes I think you do not see the danger—”

“Why, I do love it,” she interrupted gaily. “The excitement is life to me—and you forget—are there so few faithful in England? We are only two of thousands who plot, and wait and long for the rightful King again!”

With a little laugh she came behind him and put her hand on his shoulder, while she gazed over his head into the fire.

“Yea, we will do it,” said Sir Perseus quietly. “We will oust the Dutchman, I think, Delia—there is a huge discontent everywhere.” He tapped the papers he had been writing, “there—in my reports to his Majesty, I have to mention many great men who would welcome him back—” he smiled grimly. “Many of them, those who welcomed William—”

“If his Majesty would but himself come over,” sighed Delia. “I think all England would rise to greet him!”

“Indeed,” answered her brother, “William has no friend in England—I marvel he holds the throne—at all—”

“’Twill not be for long,” cried Delia, with glittering eyes—“But—hark!”

A knock resounded through the empty house; Sir Perseus rose. “’Tis Jerome Caryl,” he said.

His sister gave a little pant of suppressed excitement; the bold and restless spirit of Jerome Caryl was akin to her own; he was the soul of this plot in which she was engaged; of her own religion, her own views; a man whom next to her brother she admired of all others.

And for six months she had not seen him; the while he plotted in London, they plotted in Scotland; he might have great news to tell; she was confident his fervor and ability could remove obstacles that to the slower mind of her brother seemed insurmountable.

Her fingers shaking, she lit the candles on the chimneypiece; as the pointed flames sprang up they showed the face of Delia; a strong face with great brown eyes and a passionate mouth; a low-browed fair face, very eager and bright with the thick hazel hair falling round the full, curved white throat and lace collar.

She caught up one of the candles and ran out on to the head of the stairs.

A man was coming up; she could hear the jingle of his spurs and the drag of his sword.

“Mr. Caryl!” she cried, leaning over the baluster.

He came now into the circle of the candle-light, a tall figure in steel and leather, with a long, dark traveling cloak over his shoulder.

“Himself, madam,” he answered, and looked up with a smile.

She came running down the stairs to meet him and gave him her hand between laughing and crying.

“Oh, sir, Mr. Caryl—you have some news?” she panted.

He kissed her hand ceremoniously. “News of a kind, yes,” he answered—“and you?”

“Oh, things go well in Scotland!” she cried, “but—enter—sir—”

He followed her into the room, and while the two men exchanged greetings she eagerly scanned the countenance of the new-comer.

Jerome Caryl had the figure as well as the dress of a soldier; a quiet, easy air, a soft voice and the face of a woman saint; a face that seen alone none would have ever taken for that of a man, so perfect was the contour of the small, regular features, the sweet mouth, the straight nose, the dimpled chin, the large, soft, melancholy hazel eyes, the brilliant, smooth complexion.

Beside the rough blunt appearance of Sir Perseus, his face, pale with fatigue, looked like that of a musing girl; far more soft and sweet than the firm features of Delia Featherstonehaugh, all aglow with excitement.

“How go things in London?” asked Sir Perseus. “We have had few letters.”

“It was not deemed safe to write,” answered Jerome Caryl in his low melodious voice. “Pray, Mistress Delia—sit and hearken—I have dined—I am in want of nothing save the ear of my friends—yet—have you nothing to tell?”

Delia was stirring the fire into a blaze; she looked round with an eager smile.

“Perseus hath been much engaged,” she said. “There is great discontent here—and the Highlands have not taken the oaths to the government—”

Perseus glanced affectionately at his sister. “Is she not a valiant plotter, Jerome?” he said. “Her spirits are enough to fire a losing cause—but have we told you—we have here in this house a Highlander—a Macdonald of Glencoe?” He laughed, but Jerome Caryl looked up puzzled.

“Was it well to trust one of those savages?” he asked.

Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders.

“He knows naught of us—I found him some weeks ago half-dead upon the mountains; he had dragged himself, God knows how far, on a broken ankle, then fallen in a swoon. I could not leave him in that desolation—the horse I rode was stout: I brought him here.”

A smile came on the smooth face of Jerome Caryl.

“Like you,” he said, “and Miss Delia nursed him, I suppose?”

She answered quickly, not looking at him: “He is almost mended now—and wild to return—he is not, I think, very grateful.”

“Gaelic is one of Delia’s accomplishments,” said Sir Perseus; “I do not understand a word the fellow says.”

The subject did not appear to interest Jerome Caryl; he had weightier matters on his mind.

“What was you doing in the Highlands?” he asked Perseus.

“Why, I was gathering what information I could as to the submission of the clans—January first is the last day, you know, and not so far away.”

Jerome tapped his foot thoughtfully.

“Breadalbane held a conference at Kilchurn, I heard,” he remarked. “But it has come to nothing.”

“Of course,” said Sir Perseus dryly. “The government had the folly to send a Campbell—and the most hated of all the Campbells to treat.”

“It was thought,” answered Jerome, “that it would be to his interest to quiet the Highlands, but he has, I think, found it more to his interest to keep the money he was to buy them with.”

“God knows,” said Sir Perseus. “I think his strongest motive is not money—but hate.”

Delia broke in eagerly: “You cannot guess how the Highlanders hate the Campbells, Mr. Caryl—this Macdonald goes white to think of them—”

Jerome Caryl lifted his head; his beautiful face was set and hard.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “The Highlands hate Breadalbane—the Lowlands hate the Master of Stair; the English hate William of Orange—in each case ’tis thousands to one—”

Delia cried joyously:

“Surely that means all hearts turn to the true King—no government can surely live on hate!”

“Indeed,” put in her brother, “I do think this seething discontent looks well for us—what do you say, Jerome?—the odds are against the Dutchman.”

Jerome looked from one to the other, then gave a bitter little laugh.

“No!” he cried, “the odds are most mightily against King James—and even with the three kingdoms behind us we could do nothing against these men—nothing!”

He struck his hand vehemently on his sword-hilt.

“I have seen it—as I intrigued and waited and watched in London—while half the men of note would go over again to King James and the other half follow if he was here—while the people grumble and curse the Dutchman—while promises of anything may be had for the asking, still three men hold us in check—three men whom every one joins in loathing—but, by Heaven, they hold the three countries with a power we cannot shake!”

He stopped, flushed with the force of his words; Delia looked at him with surprised, indignant eyes; her brother spoke.

“What are these, Jerome?”

“William Carstairs, one; the Master of Stair, two, and three, William of Orange.”

There was a little pause, then Delia made an impatient movement with her foot.

“Three men, Mr. Caryl!” she cried with flashing eyes. “Have we not many threes to match them?”

“Miss Delia,” said Jerome Caryl, “you remember what the Irish said after the Boyne?—‘Change kings and we will fight it again’—I feel like that now.”

“Oh, shame!” cried Delia.

“You seem turned rank Williamite,” remarked Sir Perseus, a little sourly.

“I am not,” was the firm answer, “but I see what a rope of sand we are without a leader: I see that we have to struggle against a man whose genius has made him arbitrator of Europe—and he has linked himself with William Carstairs—”

“A Scotch minister of no birth!” interrupted Delia.

“One of the cleverest men in the kingdom,” said Jerome, “and the Master of Stair is another—if you consider the Highlands, you may add Breadalbane for a fourth—call them devils, if you will, but they are men impossible to defeat.”

Sir Perseus rose impatiently:

“I think you are wrong, Jerome—why, Sir John Dalrymple, the Master of Stair, as you call him, hath roused such a storm against himself that he hardly dares to show himself in Edinburgh—any moment he might be arrested by the Parliament.”

“Nevertheless,” answered Jerome, “he holds Scotland in the hollow of his hand, he is a close friend of William of Orange, all powerful at St. James’s, he is hand and glove with Breadalbane and Carstairs and his father, Sir James—curse him.” He brought the last words out so fiercely that the others started.

“They defeat me at every turn, these men,” he continued passionately. “But, by God, they shall not get the Highlands!” He turned the soft face that was at variance with his speech toward Perseus. “That is the question of issue now,” he said. “The Highlanders must take the oaths, the government decrees it.”

“Ay,” answered Sir Perseus, “and the government does not want the decree carried out. The government may, but the Master of Stair and Breadalbane have other plans—don’t you see?”

“Yes,” nodded Sir Perseus, “they want the Highlands to put themselves outside the law.”

“So that you may quiet them forever with the cold steel,” finished Jerome. “Breadalbane wants to wipe out the hated clans—the Master of Stair wants to exterminate this pariah race that harries the government—but we—we want to keep alive the Highlands for King James—and we will do it!”

“Then they must take the oaths?” whispered Delia breathlessly.

“And break them when need be,” answered Jerome, “but they must take them—so that those who count upon their refusal may be defeated.”

“The Master of Stair does not think they will?” asked Sir Perseus.

“No—nor yet Breadalbane—they count upon them refusing to take the oath a Campbell administers—they are waiting eagerly for the first of January—then—letters of fire and sword and war to the death in the Highlands.”

“What can we do?” asked Delia eagerly.

Jerome Caryl lifted his intense eyes to her flushed face.

“Miss Delia—the Highlands must be warned of the vengeance preparing for them.”

The girl nodded, with sparkling eyes; but Sir Perseus questioned:

“How?”

“That,” answered Jerome Caryl, “is what I have come to consult with you about—after I had clearly seen the objects of these men there seemed but that one thing to do—to warn the Highlands and give them King James’s permission to take the oaths.”

“But—” said Sir Perseus, “do we not by that lose the support of the Highlands—if we should—as I hope to—organize a rising in Scotland?”

“No—a Highlander does not look on an oath as a sacred thing, my dear Perseus, ’tis said Breadalbane himself tells them to take Prince William’s money to spend for King James—and under what possible pretext can we continue to ask them to hold out? The King’s last gift was a few bottles of wine—let them take the thousands of the government and buy muskets with it for our use.”

“Do you think,” answered Sir Perseus—“that we can overcome the fierce hate of the Campbells? Will the clans submit to Breadalbane whatever we say?”

“If they are frightened enough,” said Jerome. “If they realize that all England is behind him they will submit.”

Delia broke in suddenly:

“And my Highlander shall take the warning,” she cried. “He shall carry home this news.”

Jerome looked up interested: “A Macdonald, did you say?”

“Ronald Macdonald,” she answered, “and son of the chief of his clan.”

“He may be trusted,” said Sir Perseus, “for his very simplicity. He could take letters to Lochiel, Glengarry, Keppoch—I know not about his gratitude. He is, I think, faithful.”

“I will answer for him,” said Delia. “Indeed, I can assure you of his great honesty.”

Jerome Caryl smiled.

“Why—you seem to know him very well, Miss Delia.”

She answered his look with a straight glance. “I have talked to him—he has told me things of himself and his people.”

“They come from Glencoe?”

“Yes,” she answered. “In our tongue, you know, it is the Glen of Weeping—they call it so because of the mists that hang there day and night—’tis an awful place in the heart of the Campbell country.”

“And they are murdering thieves, are they not?” questioned Jerome.

Delia lifted her strong face, flushed rosy from the fire: “I think these Highlanders have other standards than ours,” she said quietly. “They own stronger virtues and franker vices.”

“The same,” returned Jerome, “may be said of all savages, Miss Delia.”

Sir Perseus interposed:

“But I think the fellow is to be trusted, and who but a born Highlander could traverse this chaotic country with safety and advantage?”

Jerome Caryl shrugged his shoulders and stirred the log on the hearth with the toe of his boot.

“Well, let the matter rest. Only the thing must be done if we are to defeat Breadalbane and the Master of Stair.”

Sir Perseus laughed: “Why, I believe you dislike the Secretary as much as the Edinburgh mob do.”

“I hate his power,” answered Jerome. “The way he rules us all against our will—he and he only prevents Scotland returning to King James—”

“They do say he is accursed of a cursed family,” said Delia. “There are horrid mysteries whispered of him—you have heard?”

“Yes, and I do not think them all vulgar spite—they are a dark race, these Dalrymples,” answered Jerome.

There was a pause, then Delia spoke: “Have you ever seen him?” she asked.

“Once—in Edinburgh—he was riding an ash-colored horse; there was a great train of rabble at his heels, who hooted and pelted him—I did not see his face; he had his hat over his eyes and never looked back.”

“He is used to being mobbed,” said Sir Perseus; “they say that is why he left Edinburgh.”

“I was of the mob,” said Jerome Caryl fiercely, “and I said with the mob what I say now: damnation to the Master of Stair!”

CHAPTER V
THE FOLLY OF DELIA

Delia Featherstonehaugh shut the door on Jerome Caryl and her brother and began mounting the stairs of the quiet little house. She could hear the low murmur of the men’s voices through the frail door and a fine pencil of yellow light fell between the paneling onto the blackness without. Delia stood still a moment in an attitude of hesitation, then went on lightly and swiftly.

At the top of the stairs she fumbled in the dark along the wall, found what she sought, a door-handle, turned it and entered. She was in a small room with a sloping roof and a deep bow-window; there was no light, but through this window poured a great flood of moonshine that showed the plaster walls, the simple wooden furniture and the figure of a man wrapped in a plaid, who leaned on his elbow at the window and gazed over the city.

The rough outline of his profile was clear against the square of cold blue sky, and above the housetops above him hung the great white moon.

Delia let the door slip into its latch with a click, and he turned his head.

“You are longing to be away,” she said in her English Gaelic. “And why have you no light, Macdonald?”

“I have no need,” he said mournfully.

Delia gave a nervous little laugh and came up to him.

“Why, you are well now,” she said, “and will soon be free—you have no need to brood in the dark.”

He shook his head gloomily.

“’Tis always dark to me,” he answered. “I would I had died.”

There was a soft stir of satin as Delia seated herself on a wooden stool beyond the patch of moonlight; out of the shadows came her hesitating voice.

“Do not talk so—we have a mission for you, my brother and I.”

He made no answer, only dropped his head into his hand and stared at the moon. Delia locked her fingers together; she seemed to have to make an effort to speak, at last she told him of the discussion between her brother and Jerome Caryl, tried to put it forcibly and clearly and ended by offering him the mission of carrying the warning to the Highlands that they must take the oaths of submission to King William.

He listened as if she spoke of something of no importance; the names of the rival kings, of the Master of Stair, had clearly no meaning to him, but he flushed when she mentioned Breadalbane.

“The others may do what they will,” he flung out, “but the Macdonalds of Glencoe will never submit to a Campbell.”

Delia strove, somewhat falteringly, to show him the unreasonableness of this; presently he said drearily: “For the sake of your bread that I’ve eaten, I will do your errand.”

A silence fell. Delia put her foot forward into the moonlight, and watched the long shadow it made; she shivered once or twice for the room was cold. Ronald Macdonald seemed to have forgotten her the moment her voice ceased; she looked up at him and said, faintly:

“You promised to tell me before you left, Macdonald, the adventure that brought you to the plight my brother found you in.”

That appeared to rouse him; he looked round sharply.

“Ye found me near to death, did ye not?” he demanded.

“You have been in great fever,” she answered softly. “Yes, very sick.”

“Ah!” He drew himself up in the window-seat and frowned reflectively. “I think she was a Campbell.”

“Who?” asked Delia, a little breathlessly.

He did not heed her question. “She was like none I have ever seen,” he went on. “I would have fought a clan for her—she wore a coat of the Saxon red, but she was of our country—a Campbell—was she a cursed Campbell?”

“Who was she?” said Delia again, still so faintly that he did not hear.

“Certainly she lied to me,” he continued moodily. “And ‘fair and false as a Campbell,’ they say—she fooled me. I would I had killed her before I let her fool me.”

It was the first time he had ever spoken of this mysterious woman. Delia fumbled in vain for the meaning.

“What was she like?” she asked.

He flushed and turned his frank eyes toward her.

“She had hair of the Campbell red, and curly like little oak leaves round her face; her eyes were like a wildcat’s, that the light runs in and out of; her mouth was bright as blood, and her face white and sharp; she coughed and shivered, her voice was very cold. I kissed her and she would have killed me for it—yet could it have been only that?—I think she was a Campbell.”

He sat up and gazed earnestly into the shadows where Delia sat; his plaid had fallen back and showed the rough hide coat underneath and the strong lines of his bare throat. Delia laughed.

“Whoever she was I think you love her, Macdonald,” she said.

“I want her,” he answered simply. “I want to look at her again, to touch her, to hear her. If she is a Campbell I hate her—yet I want her—and I cannot rest for this desire.”

Delia stood up; there was a gleam of satin as she moved, a quick rustle; she had her hands on her bosom and they rose and fell very quickly.

“Did she shoot you?” she asked.

“Yea,” he answered. “Against the mist I saw her harness shine, and like the sun was her yellow hair,—she leaned from the saddle and fired—but I had kissed her.” His breath came fast. He smiled. “I held her back against the rowan-tree, the berries all mingled with her fallen curls—I kissed her! She called out in your Southern tongue—then she said, “You have put that between us that I shall not forget,” and her white lids dropped till her red lashes touched her cheek—and I ... I cannot rest.”

Delia Featherstonehaugh laughed as relief to the effect of the romantic wording of the soft tongue and the white coldness of the moonlight; she steadied herself with the thought of her brother and Jerome Caryl talking (very practically) below.

“You are free to go when you will, Macdonald,” she said. “Only—if you will see my brother first and take his message to the clans.”

She saw his eyes open, with a quick delight, she thought. He turned his face full toward her for the first time.

“I will do anything you wish,” he said. “If I may go at once—to-night.”

She stiffened and drew further away.

“Why not?” she answered. “You are well enough.” Her manner was unnaturally cold, but he took no heed of her; she waited for her answer in vain. “Why not?” she repeated at length. “We only kept you here during your sickness, Macdonald.”

Something in her tone seemed to ask for gratitude, the expression of some thankfulness for his life saved, but the inflection was too delicate for him to notice it.

“I will take your message,” he repeated. “Only you must not ask us to take the oaths to a Campbell.”

“Not to a Campbell,” she said. “To the Prince’s Government—but will you come and see my brother?”

Instinctive fear and dislike of the Southern struggled with the Macdonald’s desire for freedom; he reflected a while, then gave a grave consent.

Delia, watching him, was quick to see that his impulse was to leave without a word, stride off with no backward look at the hated town. With her head held very stately high she preceded him down the stairs and flung open the parlor door.

The two men turned at her entrance. She made a little gesture toward Macdonald, and spoke in English.

“My Highlander—and he is so eager to leave us, Perseus, he would do anything—he will take your message.”

Crossing to the fire, she seated herself, leaving Macdonald in the doorway. He eyed the two Saxons with frank interest; his glance rested long on the beautiful face of Jerome Caryl.

“I am to translate, Perseus,” said Delia. “What do you want to say?”

Jerome looked at the huge Highlander with approval.

“Ask him to sit down,” he said. “He looks honest.”

Delia obeyed with an air almost of disdain; Jerome, glancing at her, wondered what had damped her eager spirits; she was very grave and pale; her eyes were fixed with a curious expression on Macdonald; her mouth had a little lift of scorn.

She sat so, very still, translating her brother’s questions and explanations into Gaelic, and Jerome Caryl watched her.

Macdonald listened with gravity and attention, appeared to understand what was asked of him and received into his keeping the letters to the Highland chiefs with a solemn promise to deliver them.

Sir Perseus gave him a rough map of his route from Glasgow to Glencoe, a pistol and a few crowns.

These last he respected as useless; he was doubtful, too, of the pistol, but finally stuck it in his belt. Jerome Caryl offered to see him on his way beyond the town gates.

Macdonald declined, gazing from his high window he had marked the gates and could well find them. With cordialities on the part of Sir Perseus, and shy reserve from the Highlander, they took leave of each other.

“I will light you,” said Delia.

She rose and took up a candle and led the way down-stairs; Ronald Macdonald, light-footed as a cat, followed.

In the narrow little hall she turned and faced him; in the circle of the candle-light her brown hair glittered with threads of gold and the yellow satin of her gown rippled into reflections and shadows.

“Maybe you will meet the lady with the red curls again,” she said.

He looked curiously at the Saxon woman who had nursed him; his blue eyes held some wonder; he had hardly realized her as yet.

“’Tis late to start on a journey,” continued Delia; “dark already.”

“Day and night are one to me,” he answered.

“And you are very eager to be gone,” she finished with a faint smile.

He looked at her half-hesitatingly.

“You have been very hospitable to one not of your race,” he said slowly. “Beyond Dunblane, on the beginning of the Highlands, lives an old shepherd who knows me well—if you ever need me send to him and I shall hear.”

She lifted her head.

“I shall ask for no gratitude, Macdonald,” she said gravely and proudly. “Nor am I like to need you—I have my own kin.”

A puzzled expression crossed his face.

“Your brother is a Saxon,” he answered. “Most Saxons would have shot me where I lay.”

Delia Featherstonehaugh smiled faintly:

“My brother is a gentleman.”

“And I am a prince of the Macdonalds,” said the Highlander, “and I can bring two hundred men to serve you when you will. They would give their lives to one who had given Ronald Macdonald his.”

This sudden high-handed overpaying of what she had done at a moment when she was the most considering him ungrateful, brought a quick flush of shame into her cheeks.

“I pray you do not speak of it,” she said faintly.

She was leaning against the wall and the candle shook so in her hand that her shadow waved and danced behind her on the paneling; she was very much aware of the nearness of his magnificent presence and the frank half-wonder of his blue eyes turned on her, though her own were very resolutely fixed upon her feet.

“Unbar the door,” she asked him, “’tis too heavy for me.”

He bent over the iron bolts; as he turned his back she glanced once up then down again.

There was a hoarse creaking and the door swung slowly open on the violet night; it was bitter cold; beneath the rising moon great masses of gray clouds lay piled, and a low stinging wind was abroad.

Macdonald stepped over the threshold and set his face toward the gates; a little wild smile crossed his face.

“Farewell,” he said absently, and turned to leave.

A gust of wind blew out the candle and Delia let it drop; with a swish of skirts she came out into the cobbled road, her hair blown about her face.

“Macdonald,” she said; he turned and gazed down at her; the moonlight lay on her from head to foot; she was pale and her eyes looked preternaturally large.

“Macdonald,” she repeated, then seemed to fumble for her words, “Do you understand?—you must take the oaths.” She laid her hand on the corner of his plaid with a timid eagerness that had its effect.

“We will go to Breadalbane’s conference,” he answered, “and if the others submit—”

“There must be no ‘if’!” she cried impetuously. “Don’t you see? Take the oaths or woe, woe to Glencoe! For the Campbells will get letters of fire and sword against you, and the whole strength of England would be behind them!”

He appeared to suddenly give heed to some of the danger threatening; his serious face darkened.

“Maybe we will take the oaths—” he answered gloomily, “but not to Breadalbane.”

“Lochiel, Glengarry and Keppoch will take them,” she said eagerly. “Why not you?”

He turned on her fiercely: “Ye are Saxon! Ye cannot fathom! We hate the Campbells!”

He loosened his plaid almost roughly from her grasp and was gone at a swinging pace down the empty street.

Delia stood where he had left her; she put her loosened hair back and stared after him; she shivered yet did not know it was cold; a few houses off a flickering oil lamp hung across the street; she waited for the great figure to show beneath it, thinking perhaps he might look back since there he reached the turn of the road.

She saw him pass from the moonlight into the lamplight, then disappear into the dark shadow of the houses beyond. He had not turned his head, but with light and quickened pace had gone.

Delia Featherstonehaugh went into the house—shut the door and slowly mounted the stairs. She could hear her brother and Jerome Caryl talking in the parlor and the old woman who was their only servant moving about below; she avoided both and went straight to her own room.

It was a cheerless poor place; as Delia lit the lamp and looked round a vague, sick longing took her heart.

She had never known a home or wished for one; even when her father was alive they had been desperately poor and she had alternated between a foreign convent and a Scotch lodging, according as the fortunes of her father’s master, the Duke of York, had shifted.

There had been some little prosperity for them when the Duke, as King James, came to the throne; of that now nothing remained save the empty baronetcy that her brother now held and the memory of her father’s death at the Boyne.

Yet she had been happy.

She went on her knees by her bed and buried her face in the pillows; it was strange to feel suddenly tired and lonely; she was half-frightened at the heaviness of her heart.

After a while she rose to her feet with a shudder between shame and fear; she felt restless, distracted, incapable of any continued thought.

She opened the door and looked out.

The house seemed quiet; she crept down-stairs and entered the parlor.

It was empty, but the light still burning. Delia, suddenly aware that she was numb with cold, drew a chair to the fire and held her hands to the flames. Sitting so, she fell into dreams and did not notice when the fire sank and died and the log fell into ashes at her feet; her thoughts were more real than the room; she suddenly called out at them aloud and clasped her hands passionately, then, startled at herself, looked round.

The other side of the hearth stood Jerome Caryl, his melancholy hazel eyes fixed on her.

“Mr. Caryl!” she cried and flushed scarlet.

His small mouth curved into a smile. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I startled you—”

She recovered herself with a half-laugh. “I thought you were gone with Perseus—or abed,” she said, “and I—I have let the fire out.”

She spoke hurriedly and the color receding from her face, left her very white.

Jerome seated himself. “Miss Delia,” he said, “this is a miserable life for you.”

“Oh, no,” she answered. “No.”

“Yes,” he insisted gently. “For a woman and a lady, a miserable life; you are very heroic, Miss Delia, to give up so much for King James.”

“You forget, Mr. Caryl, that I have no alternative.” She smiled frankly at him. “And I am a born plotter,” she added, “and sanguine—so content, Mr. Caryl.”

A silence fell between them; she turned her head away and fell to twisting her fingers together in her lap; he could see her profile in pure strong lines against the background of shadows, the curve of her throat into the lace collar and the loosened knot of dull brown curls in her neck; he studied her with gentle melancholy eyes and his mouth drooped with lines of musing. Presently the girl spoke, shaking off the spell of the silence with an effort.

“Mr. Caryl—do you think the Highlands will take the oath?”

“I hope so—most fervently,” he answered. “Indeed, I think so—”

“All of them?” she asked, and her voice faltered a little.

Jerome Caryl considered.

“Some might hate the Campbells more than they feared the government,” he said, “but it would, Miss Delia, hardly matter—they would pay the price—they could not involve the others.”

“Pay the price,” she repeated. “What would that be?—what would the government do to those who did not take the oaths?”

She turned full toward him with grave, intent eyes.

“’Tis not a question of the government,” answered Caryl. “But of Breadalbane and the Master of Stair—they are waiting very eagerly, Miss Delia, for the first of January to pass, and they are preparing a great vengeance against those who shall then be outside the law.”

“They would be pitiless, you think?” she questioned breathlessly.

“Yes,” said Jerome Caryl.

She moved impetuously in her chair. “Why?” she asked, “I can understand Breadalbane—but why the Master of Stair? What has he against the Highlands?”

“The contempt of the statesman for the savage,” Caryl answered with a half-smile. “The intolerant arrogance of the powerful against those who oppose him, and the haughty resolution of an imperious soul, Miss Delia.”

“I loathe his make,” she cried. “Hard and cruel—I have heard horrid tales of him—and how he is accursed—he is a fitting servant of William of Orange!”

The color had come into her face; she set her lips resolutely and flung up her head.

“Do you think that the Macdonalds of Glencoe will take the oaths?” she asked abruptly.

“I cannot tell,” he answered gravely.

“And if they did not—” she stopped, then went on bravely. “They are in the heart of the Campbell country—I suppose—I mean, do you think—Breadalbane would—leave any alive?”

“Nay, I cannot tell,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is not likely that he would forego this chance against his ancient enemies.”

She rose up suddenly and her clasped hands fell apart and clenched at her sides.

“Ah!” she cried.

Then she caught his eyes on her and gave a faint laugh.

“Mr. Caryl,” she began. She could get no further; her voice broke; she put her trembling hand to her mouth and stared down at him.

He rose.

“Miss Delia,” he said gently, “what is it to you that the Macdonalds should take the oaths?”

The direct question threw her off her defenses; she gave him a terrified glance and sank into the chair, turning away her head.

“What is it to you?” he repeated softly.

Her voice came muffled over her shoulder: “Why, nothing—only—you see—I—”

He saw her shoulders heave, and bent over her. She was sobbing; he could see the tears glittering on her cheek; with a great effort she tried for control.

“I am tired—and excited, Mr. Caryl—don’t heed me.”

He stood still and silent, watching her, his soft mouth curved into a half-sad smile; the light from the flaring candle and his flickering shadow rose and fell over her, now obscuring, now revealing her bent head, and stooping shoulders.

“’Tis nothing,” she said, stifling her sobs.

“Miss Delia,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is a great deal.”

She suddenly broke down beyond concealment. “I think my heart is broken,” she whispered between passionate sobs “I think I am mad—oh,—I am ashamed!—ashamed!”

She struggled up, hiding her scarlet, tear-stained face.

“Think me mad,” she whispered through her fingers, “and forget—I am ashamed—and most unhappy—”

She leaned her forehead against the chimneypiece and sobbed afresh; her yellow skirt trailed in the dead ashes on the hearth, and from head to foot she shuddered.

Jerome Caryl was neither discomposed nor confused; he surveyed her agitation with a tender calmness and his strange melancholy smile deepened.

“I think we can make the Macdonalds take the oaths, Miss Delia,” he said, “as an old friend you will let me help you—in what I can?”

She lifted her head and looked at him with a half-wonder.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

His voice sank melodiously low.

“I mean I think you would not care, Miss Delia, for the man who has left us to be massacred by the Campbells—you would like to think he and his clan were safe.”

Delia went white and clutched at the edge of the mantelpiece; she stared with widened eyes at the beautiful face of the man opposite.

“You know,” she said at length, “you are very gallant with my folly, Mr. Caryl.”

“My sweet friend,” he answered, “your folly is a lovely thing—this man is honored by your consideration and I by leave to help you—you have a tenderness toward the life you saved; believe me it does you credit.”

A look of relief crossed her face, she gave a little gasping sigh.

“You are generous,” she said falteringly, “and I foolish—and ashamed—”

“I have seen strange things in an adventurer’s career, Miss Delia,” he smiled, “but never any one ashamed with no cause.”

She stood abashed, yet comforted; gratitude that he had not guessed and fear that he might struggled together at her heart; she resolved on escape.

“Good-night,” she said, and held out her hand.

His cool, firm palm touched her trembling hot fingers; she gave him a wistful look.

“Thank you—Jerome,” she said, and with a sweep of skirts was gone.

He noted the way she gave him his name as a great mark of confidence, and smiled quietly.

“So she is in love with that Highlander,” he said to himself, “and thinks her heart broken!”

He shrugged his shoulders; then yawned and picked the candle up.

“Perseus is remarkably obtuse,” he reflected. “Poor lady!” And he yawned again.

CHAPTER VI
HATE MEETS HATE

The Earl of Breadalbane bit his pen and stared thoughtfully out of the window at the gloomy shores of Loch Awe.

He sat in a small chamber contrived by a modern architect out of one of the Gothic halls of the old castle; it was well furnished and contained the luxuries (rare in the Highlands), of a carpet, wall-hangings and a sideboard with a mirror.

These things, however, were none of them new; the Earl’s chair showed the horsehair through the broken leather and the carpet in front of his bureau was worn threadbare; the Earl was a wealthy man and a proud, but above everything prudent; he kept his French furniture for Edinburgh and used here things that had served when he was merely Sir John Campbell of Glenorchy.

A sheet of paper was before him; clear save for the heading:

“To Sir John Dalrymple, Master of Stair.” The Earl was very clear as to what he wished to write to the Secretary; it was merely to inform him that there was little likelihood of many of the clans coming in by the prescribed time; to advise him that the new regiment of his cousin, Argyll, should be armed and quartered in Glasgow with as little disturbance as possible.

But it was not so easy to couch this in terms satisfactory to his own cautious mind; it must be in his own hand, his name attached; there must be possibility of a perfectly innocent construing of it if ever it were produced.

Breadalbane had often raised his eyebrows of late at the letters the Master of Stair put his hand to; the utterly reckless letters of a man too powerful to heed caution.

“But times change,” smiled Breadalbane, “he’d no’ be so powerful if there was a revolution.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a packet of the Master of Stair’s letters; written mostly from Kensington and in a powerful, picturesque style, flowing and eloquent. They set forth a scheme evidently very passionately dear to the writer’s heart, namely, the utter destruction of that “damnable den of thieves,” the Highlanders.

Breadalbane took up the last and read it over again; it contained these words:

“Your troops will destroy entirely the country of Lochaber, Lochiel’s lands, Keppoch’s, Glengarry’s and Glencoe’s. Your power shall be large enough. I hope the soldiers will not trouble the government with prisoners.”

The Earl folded and put the letters away. “You are very confident, Sir John,” he reflected, “that the clans will no’ be coming in.”

It was now the third of December and none had taken the oaths; there seemed fair ground for the Master of Stair’s eager hope that none would; who was to warn the remote Highlands of the secret vengeance preparing against them; of the soldiers sent quietly in readiness for the first day of the new year, of the Master of Stair, Secretary and Prime Minister for Scotland, waiting for that day with the terrible calmness of a black resolve?

The Highlanders saw none of this; only the suave smile of the loathed Campbell who was the government’s instrument, and a demand for the avowal of submission their haughtiness would not stoop to grant.

Breadalbane put down his pen and pushed his chair back.

If the chiefs were not warned....

His light eyes glistened unpleasantly—certainly he had at least the Macdonalds in his hand.

He was returning to his letter with a smile on his thin lips when the door was suddenly opened and he swung round with his swift silent movement.

It was Campbell of Ardkinglass.

“Weel?” demanded the Earl, and his tone was haughty: his common usage.

Ardkinglass gave him a strange glance. “Macdonald o’ Glencoe is below,” he said dryly. “The chief and his twa sons asking for ye.”

Breadalbane rose stiffly:

“Macdonald o’ Glencoe—under my roof?” he said with narrowing eyes.

Ardkinglass nodded.

“They will be wishing to take the oaths,” he answered. “They’ve come to attend the conference.”

The Earl, always mindful of his dignity before his henchmen, stifled a fierce oath. “I’m no’ a sheriff,” he said. “Let them begone from my roof—see to it Ardkinglass—tell them I willna’ treat with thieves.”

“They willna’ gang,” replied Campbell of Ardkinglass, “they’ve come, they say, for their share of the bonnie English siller.”

The Earl’s control broke at that; he cried out passionately:

“The auld leeing thief! He would be asking me for the siller when he owes me more for rent and robbery than his share twice ower!”

“I think they will be coming to see ye in your public capacity,” was the answer. “They’re no’ taking heed of private feuds.”

Breadalbane stood silent; the angry color fled from his face and it took on lines of cunning; his eyes shifted under their blond brows; he stroked his chin with his delicate hand and coughed musingly; then he glanced up with a return of his perpetual smile.

“Weel,” he said, “I’ll come, Ardkinglass.” He turned and carefully locked away his papers; then preceded his kinsman down the great gaunt stairs.

The Macdonalds stood in the center of the vast dining-hall, the old chief between his two sons; all three erect with their bonnets in their hands, all huge in height and build.

The two young men were breathing hard, flushed and defiant, their eyes roving quickly from door to window; but the elder Makian’s fine old face showed a dignified, placid calm in keeping with his venerable appearance, a benevolent good-will showed in his bright blue eyes and his lips were curved to a kindly smile.

Breadalbane, entering, gave him a quick glance, then stepped forward, motioning to Ardkinglass to stand back against the wall. The two young men swung round, black with mistrust, but Makian spoke in bland Lowland Scotch:

“Ye will be wondering, why we make such a tardy appearance,” he remarked gently, “weel, it was the weather—was ower rough.”

His manner utterly waived all thought of offense between them; he spoke as if the Campbells and Macdonalds had been friends for centuries.

Breadalbane hitched his sword over his hip so that it lay nearer his hand. “Weel,” he answered thoughtfully, “I’ll no’ be denying that I was expecting Makian, though ’tis ower long since a Macdonald came to Kilchurn.”

Makian waved his hand courteously as if he dismissed even the hint of an unpleasant subject. “Ye will be guessing our errand?” he said suavely.

There was the slightest pause; Breadalbane measured the three huge Highlanders in their dark tartans with their dirks stuck through their belts, and the Highlanders eyed the Earl, slender in his Lowland suit of gray velvet with his left hand gently pulling his sword backwards and forwards.

He was the first to speak:

“Yea,” he said, “it will be aboot the coos ye have come, Macdonald.”

Makian’s face was a pleasant blank.

“The coos?” he repeated courteously.

Breadalbane lifted his ash-gray eyes with a sinister flash.

“The coos,” he answered, “and the bonnie pasture lands—they have been keeping ye, Macdonald, this mony year, I ken—I willna’ be mentioning the gould and siller, the plate and furniture and sic details—for I’m no’ doubting ye have come to return the coos.”

“I’m no’ understanding,” said Makian pleasantly. “We hav’na’ ane coo in Glencoe.” His two sons emphasized the statement with a scowl, but the Earl was imperturbable.

“Weel,” he remarked, “ye eat a muckle of meat in a fortnight—it is only that time since ye took a hundred fat coos—but I make no doubt that since ye have eaten them, Macdonald, ye have brought the siller to pay for them.”

Again there was a slight pause; the venerable Makian’s face assumed a still more amiable expression, but he appeared a little at a loss for an answer; the sons exchanged fierce glances.

Breadalbane, still fondling his sword-hilt, spoke slowly.

“The market value of the coos is twa pund English apiece.”

At this one of the young Macdonalds broke out: “Ye play the fule, Jock Campbell! We hav’na’ come to prate of coos—but of the oaths to King Wullie.”

Breadalbane looked at him calmly.

“So you’re thinking of taking the oaths? Weel, I’m no’ a sheriff.”

Makian interposed:

“We will gang to the sheriff, Jock Campbell, but there was talk of siller for those taking the oaths and I’d no’ be adverse to my ain share.”

“Weel?” said Breadalbane mildly.

“We’ll no’ be asking a muckle,” said Makian generously. “King Jamie couldna’ do more for us than fine words and a siller bawbee apiece—gie us twa hundred of King Wullie’s money and we’ll be taking the oaths.”

“I take your meaning, Macdonald,” answered Breadalbane. “The twa hundred pund would just pay for the coos—well, I’ll keep it and then you’ll be still owing me the rent.”

Makian was silent, recognizing a master-stroke of cunning; Ronald had little Lowland speech and could only frown angrily; but Ian, his elder, made a step toward Breadalbane:

“We owe ye neither money nor friendship, Jock Campbell,” he cried fiercely, “we come to ye because ye stand for the government—we’ll no’ be considering what there is between us here and noo.”

Breadalbane lifted his head with a little laugh. “Keep back,” he said. “Dinna forget that I’m no’ ane of your Hieland thieves, but Campbell o’ Glenorchy and Breadalbane! Keep back, I say! Do ye ken that in Edinburgh the lifting of my finger would hang ye before the Tolbooth?”

His eyes shone with a steady contained hate, and fire flashed in Ian Macdonald’s gaze to meet it.

“Na doot ye could lee awa’ a mon’s life in Edinburgh, Jock Campbell,” he answered, “but noo we stand on our ain ground.”

“Ye stand in Kilchurn Castle!” cried the Earl. “Dinna forget that, Macdonald!”

A passionate reply was on Ian’s lips, but the old chief interposed:

“Ay, we stand in your ain castle, Jock Campbell, because we treat ye as the government’s representative—in your public capacity, ye ken. I’ll no’ be saying it’s greatly to our liking to treat with a Campbell, but I will be saying it’ll no’ be greatly to your credit to be remembering ye are a Campbell.”

Breadalbane’s hand clutched tightly round his sword-hilt; he struggled to maintain his wonted dignity of demeanor.

“Take the oaths an’ ye will, Macdonald,” he said. “But dinna think ye’ll get ony siller frae me—not a bawbee. Ye owe me in money and kind mony times your share o’ the English siller.”

Makian drew himself up with stately gravity.

“Ye are wrong,” he said. “’Tis not in your right to withhold the money.”

“’Tis in my power,” flashed Breadalbane. Ian answered fiercely:

“I fling your word of thief back at ye, Jock Campbell!”

He was striding forward when his brother and father caught him by either arm.

“We must have no fighting,” cried Ronald in Gaelic. “There are a hundred Campbells here—woe that we ever came!”

Breadalbane, holding himself erect, smiled coldly at them; he had himself well under control; Makian glancing at his set face felt it had been a mistake to cross his threshold.

There was an intense pause; Ronald scowled till his blue eyes were hidden; the wily old chief with one hand tightly on Ian’s arm was considering a means to conciliate or to outwit the Earl.

Breadalbane looked at the silent Ardkinglass behind him, then back at the three Highlanders and his lids drooped till his eyes were hidden.

The silence was broken by the opening of the heavy door, and the quick entry of a woman.

It was the Countess Peggy.

She wore a green coat and there was some heavy brown fur about her neck; she carried her hat in her hand and on her shoulders and in her red curls was a faint powdering of snow.

At sight of the three Highlanders she stepped back and the color rushed into her face. And Ronald had seen her; he turned full to where she stood and cried:

“Helen Fraser!”

The two Macdonalds stared at him; but he, breathing fast and flushing, took no heed of them; it was as if the mere sight of her had uplifted him from all thought of aught beside.

The Earl came, very softly, nearer, but he made no attempt to interpose when Ronald strode up to the woman.

“Helen Fraser!” he cried passionately, “what do ye under a Campbell’s roof? Ah, God, ye broke bread with me and I cannot forget—I forgive that ye turned on me, Helen Fraser.”

She cut him short:

“I am Margaret Campbell,” she said, very white, “and that man’s wife.” She pointed to Breadalbane with a smile of unutterable pride and before the glitter of her green eyes Ronald fell back.

“But—ye broke bread with me,” he stammered like a stricken man—“and ye are—Jock Campbell’s wife!” He glared round him with bewildered eyes: they were all silent, held in a tense hush. The Countess glanced at her husband, then back to the magnificent figure of Macdonald.

He stared at the Earl with wide eyes, stormy and inscrutable; he spoke very slowly: “So I have kissed Jock Campbell’s wife!” and he laughed, as if there were tears in his voice.

The thing was done; with a sound like a rip of silk the Earl’s sword was out and the light ran down the length of it before the eyes of the Macdonalds.

“Take the steel’s welcome to Kilchurn!” he cried in their own language “Thieves and liars! do ye think Campbell o’ Glenorchy is to be insulted in his own castle?”

In a second the Highland dirks were out and the Countess had cried to Ardkinglass: “Call my cousin, Colin—in the name of God haste!”

He dashed from the room and she flung herself forward, with eager eyes on her husband.

He had his back against the wall and was keeping Makian and his son at bay with the sweep of his long sword.

The sight drove the Countess wild: “Two to one!” she shrieked, “ye foul cowards!”

“Hold the woman back!” cried Makian; he had no scruples; what chance had they for their lives if the Campbells came? and Breadalbane was before the door. Ronald started at his father’s voice.

“Bolt the door!” cried Ian; Ronald obeyed as if he knew not what he did.

The Countess dashed forward to stop him and a second time Makian cried:

“Hold the woman, Ronald!”

This time he turned and caught her by the arm and swung her, not ungently, back. Under his uplifted arm that held her she saw the crossing swords of her husband and Makian, and Ian standing grimly by; she saw Breadalbane hopelessly overmatched and her eyes flashed to the bolted door.

“Let me go,” she said in a quick whisper, staring up into his grave troubled face. “Oh—take your hands away!”

But he held her as firmly against the castle wall as he had done against the mud hut; again her green eyes glanced in agony at her husband and she writhed in Ronald’s grip:

“They’ll kill him,” she said hoarsely.

“And you love him?” said Macdonald in Gaelic.

For answer she, realizing him in a blaze of fury, struck him full across the face with her free hand; he flushed scarlet but never relaxed his hold of her.

There was the sound of steps without and a thundering on the door.

“Jock!” cried the Countess, “Jock!”

Breadalbane had been forced back into the window-seat; the huge figure of Ian almost hid him from her view; Ronald looked over his shoulder at them.

“Jock Campbell is doomed,” he said gravely. “Answer me—do you want him saved?”

Even in that moment she was arrested by the serious passion of his face.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

“What do you think!” she cried fiercely.

“Yes or no?” said Ronald.

With a wrench the answer came from her: “God in Heaven—yes!”

Instantly he loosed her and swung round on the fighting men; not too soon; the Earl had slipped by the wall and Ian was over him, forcing the sword from his grip; but Ronald caught him by the shoulder and dragged him back with a force that shot the dagger from his hand.

“Get up!” he shouted to Breadalbane; and the Earl, dizzy from the fear of death, staggered to his feet.

The hall was full of Campbells, the Countess had dashed to shoot back the bolt and Ardkinglass had rushed in with a dozen of his kin at his heels.

Makian, breathing hard, glanced round and saw the day lost for him; he had not gathered his son’s action; but Ian turned on his brother with bitter curses.

“Are ye mad or traitor, Ronald, that ye give us to the hands of our enemies?”

The Earl pushed past him into the center of the room and stood between the three Macdonalds, sullenly at bay, and the silent Campbells, waiting the signal for slaughter.

“Fool! fool! to come to Kilchurn Castle!” said Makian, then fell into silence.

“Will ye have us hang them as thieves?” asked Ardkinglass, “or shall we cut them down noo?”

Breadalbane pushed the blond hair back from his eyes, and glanced round his tacksmen. In the little pause that followed, Ian broke into a furious taunt: “Are ye turning tender, Jock Campbell? Dinna fear the odds—a Macdonald is worth sax Campbells!”

Down from the door came the Countess Peggy into the midst of the men; the brown fur on her bosom was unclasped and showed the tumbled lace of her tie; her red hair had fallen into twists of fine curls onto her shoulders; she was flushed and most beautiful.

“Kill them, Jock,” she said.

She held out her hands, red-marked, round the wrist from Ronald’s grip. “Kill them, Jock,” she said again, and her gaze went straight and defiant to Ronald Macdonald.

Breadalbane did not answer her; he spoke to Makian.

“Your son gave me my life, Macdonald, and you’re three against a hundred. I hav’na’ need to crush ye by these means and I’ll no’ be under a debt to a Macdonald. Take your lives and gang.”

The Countess made a fierce little sound under her breath: “Ah, no, Jock—kill them—while ye have the chance!”

“He saved my life,” the Earl answered briefly, then to the Macdonalds, “leave Kilchurn, and remember I’m no’ under a debt to ye.”

They came slowly forward, showing little of their surprise in their faces; Ronald’s blue eyes were devouringly on the Countess; she drew herself up as he passed and her hand clutched into her furs.

“I wouldna’ have let ye go,” she cried bitterly, but Breadalbane turned on her:

“Woman, will ye no’ remember, I’m master in my ain castle?”

She shrank into herself, submissive under the rebuke; but a hate not to be controlled flashed from her eyes.

“See them out of the castle, Ardkinglass,” commanded the Earl, “see they gang at once. I’m no wishing to be robbed under my ain eyes.”

Makian, afraid for his life, swallowed the insult and without a backward look or any salutation to the Earl, went heavily from the hall, his sons at his heels.

Ardkinglass and the Campbells followed.

Now they were alone, the Countess Peggy turned passionately to her husband.

“Ah, I thought I had died! ah, my ain love, Jock—why didna’ ye kill them?” She caught up his hand and put her cheek to it with a little caressing movement.

He frowned at her absently and put his free hand to his sword-hilt.

“Jock, Jock,” she cried, “ye had your chance—all the hate of these hundred years might hae been satisfied—ye shouldna’ hae let them gang sae easily—that—Ronald—too,” her eyes flashed as she said it, “escapes more lightly than if he’d kissed a Hieland wench against her will—is it for naething I am Campbell o’ Glenorchy’s wife? Ah, Jock, when ye drew your sword I thought ye had killed him for me—not let him live to—boast—”

Breadalbane turned impatiently.

“Ye dinna understand,” he said, “he saved my life for one thing.”

“Not for love o’ ye,” she interrupted fiercely, “but to win a smile frae me—an insult and a disgrace—if ye had killed him none had kenned he spared your life to please your wife!”

The Earl flushed a little at her tone, but he was lapsing into his usual calm manner.

“Woman, ye dinna ken the larger issues,” he said dryly. “If I had slain these Macdonalds how think ye it would hae sounded in Edinburgh? Sir John wouldna’ hae thanked me for it; it would hae pleased nane but the Jacobites that hae been glad for this handle against me.”

She moved a step away from him.

“Ah, ye hae grown too politic,” she answered. “When I wed ye, ye wouldna’ hae done sae—Campbell o’ Glenorchy would hae fought for me nor been dared sae tamely by these thieving Macdonalds!”

Breadalbane looked at her calmly. “I willna’ put myself outside the law when I may be avenged inside the law,” he said. “In a while not three, but all o’ the Macdonalds shall be in my power and without scandal can I use it—dinna ye understand?”

“But they will take the oaths,” she answered.

“Not after this—they willna’,” said the Earl, grimly.

But the Countess Peggy was not appeased; she looked with a frown at the fading marks on her wrist and rebellion against her lord rose within her.

“I’m no’ convinced,” she said, half under her breath.

Breadalbane gave her a cold glance.

“Let a man judge o’ a man’s affairs,” he said curtly, “I’m no’ needing your advice on matters o’ policy.”

He turned to leave the room, but the Countess swung round and caught his coat.

“Nay, Jock,” she cried, with tears in her eyes, “dinna leave me in anger—forgive me—’tis only that I couldna’ bear to think they should live to—to laugh at ye.”

“I’m no’ angry with ye, Peggy,” smiled the Earl, “and for the Macdonalds—dinna fear; they willna’ lang be troubling us.”

CHAPTER VII
THE POISON OF THE KISS

The three Macdonalds trudged in silence over the flat moors beyond Loch Awe. Behind them lay Kilchurn Castle, black against the vapors of Ben Cruachan, the mist-soaked standard of England hanging red and gold above it.

The heavy gray sky seemed to hang low enough to be touched with an uplifted arm; there was no wind; a few flakes of snow fell slowly. Makian walked a little ahead of his two sons, and reflected on the absolute failure of his attempt to wring money from Jock Campbell: it had been a bold attempt and there was little wonder that it had not succeeded. Whether they took the oaths or no, Makian was very sure that they would not get a guinea of the English money; it was a bitter wrong, he thought, that the government should have chosen for its agent a man with whom so many clans were at feud. He meant to take the oaths: the letters Ronald had delivered had frightened him as well as others; he was shrewd and wily; the tribes favorable to King William; the Frasers, the Macnaughtens and Grants had warned him that submission would be the wiser part.

He knew he would have his sons against him, their hate of the Campbells overweighed every consideration of prudence he could bring forward. He decided he would wait: there was time yet. Let some of the others come in first, let Keppoch of Glenroy, Glengarry or Lochiel lend their pride before he lowered his.

Ian and Ronald followed him in silence; though Makian had condoned his son’s saving of Breadalbane as a piece of prudence that had preserved their lives, Ian felt bitter about it and turned a sullen face on his father.

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:

“Nay, we will take no oaths to a Campbell.”

Lochiel’s sharp eyes traveled keenly over the three faces; his own fell to gravity.

“Why, you would play the fool,” he said. “These letters are from Caryl, an accredited agent of King James, and His Majesty gives us leave to take the oath to the Dutchman—and to break it.”

Ronald’s face grew harder.

“It is no question of the kings—I’d see either of them hanged for a gold piece—it’s a question of Jock Campbell of Breadalbane,” he said sullenly.

Lochiel, bred in cities and used to courts, smiled at the young Highlander’s unreasoning venom. “Ye have stubborn stuff there,” he said to Makian. “But let me warn ye—take the oaths before it be too late.”

Macdonald was flattered by the friendliness of so great a man, but was too proud to show it; and sore from his recent encounter with Breadalbane, spoke with an assurance he was far from feeling.

“I am not afraid,” he said loftily. “I will consider about taking the oaths—and ye, Ewen Cameron, will ye be the first to come in?”

Lochiel drew himself up haughtily and his dark cheek flushed.

“Nay, ’tis a point of honor with me—I will not be the first,” he answered. “But my tacksmen are free to do as they choose, and my tacksmen understand me. Farewell.”

He touched his horse up and the Camerons moved on.

As Lochiel, haughty and splendid, passed the Macdonalds, he turned a little in the saddle and smiled in the winning way that had won King Charles’s heart.

“I will not be the first, Macdonald o’ Glencoe, for my honor’s sake,” he said. “But I would not be the last, for my head’s sake—look to the warning.”

His gloved hand touched his black horse, and the Camerons passed on over the wet moor toward Kilchurn.

Ronald scowled after him; Ian cursed impatiently, but Makian resolved that his prudence would do well to take the hint his pride had received ungraciously.

Before Lochiel was out of sight they were on their way again.

The snow began to fall faster; it was late afternoon and the light fading to a heavy grayness; against the hard color of the sky the flakes showed a dazzling white, and in the hollows of the rocks they began to lie in tiny drifts. Beside a narrow cave that looked full on the ravine, the Macdonalds halted.

In the shelter of an overhanging rock, Ian kindled with some difficulty a fire; and Makian produced provisions from his wallet, and laid them in silence before his sons.

Ronald sat over the thin smoky flames, morose and sullen; he pushed away the food offered with the back of his hand, and sat staring over the blank landscape, while the others ate. But he was not left long alone. Presently Ian, warmed with his food and forgetting his grievance, came and flung himself beside him. Ronald eyed him coldly, then turned his head away. He was desperately out of humor and had no care about the hiding of it.

Ian, in every respect the same to look on, save that he was darker, rougher in make and fiercer in manner, was yet of a nature more simple, more easily pleased if as easily angered; secretly, he greatly admired his younger brother. He glanced over his shoulder at Makian, sitting placid in the mouth of the cave with blank blue eyes considering mischief, and spoke in a whisper to Ronald.

“Did ye mark Lochiel’s coat?” he said eagerly. “With the gold braid on it—and his satin vest and gloves like the King? Lochiel’s a great man.”

Ronald gave no answer.

“And his sword,” continued Ian. “An Andrea Ferrara with a basket hilt—”

“I did not mark it,” answered Ronald without looking round, but Ian was not to be repulsed.

“Macdonald o’ Keppoch has a red coat like that—of the fine cloth with gilt buttons—I saw it when I was in Glenroy—Keppoch got it when he sacked Inverary and he carries it about with him, valuing it greatly.” His eyes shone with a fierce envy. “I would have a coat like that, and boots with buckles and fringes.”

“Lochiel bought those clothes in King Charlie’s time—they’re years old,” returned Ronald scornfully.

But Ian cast a wistful glance at his weather-stained plaid. “Glengarry has an Andrea Ferrara,” he said, with eager blue eyes on his brother.

“Let him keep it,” returned Ronald shortly. “I am content with my bow and my dirk.”

“You are in an ill mood,” said Ian. “I remember when ye could not sleep for longings such as these—and when ye found nothing o’ wearing apparel in Jock Campbell’s burning house ye raged extremely.”

Ronald turned fiercely.

“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?”

“Do ye care?” asked Ian incredulously. “’Tis an ordinary woman—and I like not green eyes; also she is false to her finger-tips—like a Campbell.”

“Ah, yes,” cried Ronald wildly, “she is false and doubly false. She has the trick of smiling when she lies—there is a poison in her breath that doth infect her kisses with a deadly sweetness, and in her eyes a witchcraft lurks to drive the blood too fast for bearing—I would that she or I were dead!”

A low wind was abroad; it blew the ice-cold snowflakes hissing into the lazy fire, and shook the tassels of the firs against the darkening trail of clouds.

Ian drew himself up in silence; Makian was asleep behind them, close wrapped in his plaid. It was too dark to see more than the outline of his figure.

The vast forms of the distant mountains were fast absorbed into the general grayness; it grew colder and a great sense of awe came with the dark as if an unseen presence whispered: “Hush!”

“I would be fighting,” said Ronald suddenly through the dusk, “I would be in the press and sweep of arms, the lift and music of the battle-cries—or I would lie dead and careless of the eagles that pluck at my heart—smiling perhaps—not heedful of the pain that stabs there now!”

“But ye have had your fill o’ fighting,” said Ian, shuddering under the sting of the wind. “At Killicrankie—when Dundee died. I have need to repine, who stayed guarding Glencoe while ye fought.”

Ronald’s voice came in answer, melodiously.

“It was most glorious. My God! I would give ten years of peace for such another fight—but what mattered the victory? Dundee was slain.” His voice fell to gloom. “I loved Dundee, though he was a Lowlander—this Saxon Caryl that I’ve told ye of: he had a face like his, a girl’s face, always calm. I would have died for Dundee. He was a great gentleman, full of courtliness.”

He rested his head on his hand and gazed sadly at the slow moving clouds.

“The day before the battle,” he went on, “he called us to his tent: Keppoch, Glengarry, Lochiel and us—he was writing a letter to the Duke o’ Gordon when we came in. ‘How do ye spell the name o’ yonder castle?’ he asked; Lochiel told him. ‘That’s Castle Blair,’ and he laughed and said he had little learning. He told us his plans as he sealed his letter, and how we were to meet Mackay’s men: he was very confident. ‘I was not born to be forgotten,’ he said smiling.

“There was a spy-glass on his table, a wonderful thing; as we left I asked leave to look at it and he showed me how it worked, most patient and most courteously.

“With the first daylight we were in our ranks; the mist hung over the pass like the standard o’ the Highlands; we could see no further than each other, but we could hear the rattle o’ the Lowland guns as they dragged them up the pass. They fired, and hideous was the sound of it. I saw a Cameron drop, close to Lochiel, and Glengarry wince from his place. We were new to the muskets, but we did what we might; the mist rose, but up the glen the cannon smoke rolled thick and white, we could not see. Once I looked up and saw the sky overhead was clear and blue; it seemed a strange thing and turned me giddy. The sun began to glitter down our muskets. Dundee came up at the head of his Lowland horse; he spoke to Lochiel and I saw him strain forward and look down the pass; then he gave the word. We threw down our plaids and Lochiel tossed his shoes aside; we gave the war-cry in a great shout. Up from the smoking glen came a shaking cheer in answer, and Lochiel laughed up at Dundee. ‘The thing is done, my lord. Do men who are going to win shout so?’

“‘Charge!’ cried Dundee; there was a great flush on his face.

“We flung aside the muskets and were out with the dirks. I would have charged into the cannon’s mouth for I felt immortal, but as I rushed I fell and the flying feet of the Macdonalds bruised me to the earth. I could not rise. I saw Dundee motion to his men, but they hesitated—the Lowland cowards hesitated.

“Dundee rose in the saddle; he lifted his hat and the sun glittered, very brightly, on his hair; from where I lay I shouted at the cowards behind him, then a cloud of smoke hid him. I struggled to my feet; the air was full of confusion and cries of victory; the Lowlanders were running like sheep. I saw the gunners struggling in the press, the standard o’ Lochiel flying through the smoke, and, midst it all, Dundee’s black horse dash riderless down the glen!”

Ronald stopped abruptly, with a shudder of excitement at the remembrance of that day. Ian, thrilled to forgetfulness of the cold and the dead fire, waited with eyes eager through the dark.

“One came up to me,” continued Ronald, “and asked me for my plaid. ‘Dundee is dying,’ he said; I followed to where he lay. Dunfermline held him off the ground; they took my plaid and laid it under him to keep him off the heather.

“‘How goes the day?’ he asked faintly.

“Dunfermline answered, very white: ‘Well, for King James, but I am sorry for ye, Jock.’

“‘If ’tis well for the King, ’tis the less matter for me,’ said Dundee, but there was an awful look in his eyes and I think he thought of his wife and the boy he had never seen. He did not speak again; I think he would not; he turned his face away and died as the victory shout rose up the glen.

“Dunfermline covered him with my plaid. ‘The war is over,’ he said in a broken voice. ‘Dundee is dead.’

“I helped to carry him to his grave, and I took his spy-glass from his sash; ’twas broken with his fall, but I kept it for rememberance. I loved Dundee. Would I lay with him in his nameless grave in Blair Athol!”

His voice sank miserably into silence, and there was no sound.

The clouds drifted apart over a snowy moon; there was a sense of utter desolation abroad, the cold peace of loneliness.

Ronald rose and walked away from his brother toward the moonlight with the wind cool on his face; he shook with a stormy agony and cried out low and passionately:

“Would I had died with Dundee before I had been poisoned with love o’ thee, Margaret Campbell!”

CHAPTER VIII
MacCALLUM MORE

The Countess Peggy sat in the drawing-room of her lord’s handsome house in Edinburgh and measured out tea with a heavy rat-tailed spoon.

It was a fine chamber with smooth polished cream-colored walls and long French windows, hung with flowered curtains of a dull pink; the furniture, black and a little heavy, caught in its clear-cut Jacobean facets the light from the dozen candles in a silver stand that burnt over the tea-table. The Countess wore a purple gown with paniers and a fine lace kerchief fastened with diamonds on her bosom; a screen of drawn red silk stood between her and the fire and cast a glow over her face and neck, lay reflected, too, in the hollow of the shining white and pink cups.

There was a fragrant smell of tea and the gentle hiss of boiling water from the silver kettle; it was a comfortable room, a comfortable hour; the Countess’s green eyes were soft with content like a soothed petted cat’s before a fire.

Her one companion lay back lazily on a low settee and gazed, rather vacantly, into the fire; he was a slight man with a fretful weak face, pale eyes too full, and a thin irresolute mouth.

He was handsomely dressed, and for all his unprepossessing appearance, carried an air of high lineage, wealth, position and power.

The Countess finished mixing the tea, then glanced at the man opposite; there was impatience and a slow amused scorn in her eyes; she spoke and it was in the tone of one who speaks down to his hearer.

“Cousin,” she said, “I am glad to be out of the Hielands—Kilchurn is ower damp and cold this weather.”

She handed him his tea and he put out a feeble white hand to take it.

“Ye should pull it down,” he said half-peevishly. “I canna ken how ye can live there—I’d as soon step in my grave as live in Inverary in the winter.”

His accent was very slight; he had the speech of a man who had lived abroad and learned many tongues.

The Countess Peggy smiled.

“Ye are the first Argyll, cousin,” she said, “who has disliked Inverary Castle, and as for pulling down Kilchurn, we’re no’ intending it. Jock is ower busy building up what the Macdonalds destroy.”

Argyll drew closer to the fire, balancing his tea-cup with the anxiety of a man to whom a slop in the saucer would be a disaster.

“I’m weary of the name of Macdonald, cousin,” he said. “I marvel Breadalbane hath let them gain such an upper hand; they should be hanged and done with.”

“My lord—that consummation approaches,” she answered, hardening, through her smile, at his implied slight to her husband. “’Tis no’ the lack o’ power but policy has held Jock’s hand.”

The Earl of Argyll lifted his eyes fretfully.

“Policy! Always this talk of policy! If it had na been for my father’s ‘policy’ in joining Monmouth in ’85, he would na have lost his head or the Campbells the Hielands....”

She interrupted.

“But the triumph o’ your return, cousin, made full amends for your father’s downfall.”

He shrugged his shoulders, sipping his tea; he had the manner of a man with a grievance.

“Certainly I return to the Hielands, but what do I find?” he complained. “The Macdonalds overrunning everything, Campbells hanged at sight, my houses gone to ruin—long arrears of rent due and the Stewarts o’ Appin, the Camerons, the Macnaughtens, and these cursed Macdonalds refusing to pay a farthing.”

The Countess Peggy gave him a bright glance. “We have our chance noo,” she said. “Our chance, Cousin Archibald, for our revenge.” She offered him as she spoke a little glass dish of macaroons, and he carefully selected one not too sugared before he answered.