The Master of Stair 3

The Master of Stair 3

“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?”