The Master of Stair 15

The Master of Stair 15

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!”