The Master of Stair 2

The Master of Stair 2

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.”