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—”