She heard the guns discharge again and a distant answer to them float from the hills; horsemen flew past her; one fell and his companion leaped over man and animal and was gone into the smoke; screams rose and thick cries of triumph and hate; figures formed out of the smoke and were lost again; a second time came the roll of musketry from the hills, nearer now. Delia found herself leaning against the rocky side of the valley, watching, listening, dumb—not blind. A shrieking boy rushed past her, two soldiers after him; one had a bleeding face. From the burning hut a woman came running, alight from head to foot; there was no outcry; she flung up her hands above her blazing hair and fell forward on her face. The musketry cracked again; a horseman galloped by with a Highlander clinging to the saddle; they were striking at each other with knives; the Macdonald dragged the Campbell from the saddle and the maddened horse plunged over both. It was almost dark; Delia stumbled forward from her place and ran along the rocks, crying to herself. She came into a circle of light cast by the burning dwelling and stopped, moaning. A rider swept up, cried out at sight of her and flung himself from the saddle. She felt him seize her and drag her away. “Ye will be slain,” he kept saying and he hurried her from the shrieking confusion into the dark of the cold rocks and wet heather; once her companion put his arms about her and lifted her over a fallen man. He held her close against his breast a moment; the musketry still cracked in their ears and the snow was falling over them. Delia struggled away to stare into her rescuer’s face. It was Glenlyon. He had her firmly by the arm. “Ye must come into safety,” he said hoarsely, and he drew her along, supporting her over the rough way; her cloak had fallen and he put it about her. At that she spoke. “Why are ye so careful of me, Robert Campbell? There are women dying down there.” She pointed to the dip of the valley they were leaving where the red light and the smoke rose through the darkness. “It is over now,” he answered in a troubled manner. “We killed no women if we could help it—Hamilton is coming—I must get ye into his camp.” “There are others will die of cold this night—let me join them, Robert Campbell!” But he held her firmly. “Who have ye among the Macdonalds?” he asked quickly. “Robert Campbell—let me go!” Through the dark his voice came strained and labored. “I cannot—ye will be hurt—let me be with ye—ye can command me.” She gave her arm such a sudden wrench that his grasp was slackened for a second and in that second she had freed herself and was running back through the darkness toward the deadly circle of light. As she reached the first hut the red glare that lit the way showed things that made her blood run cold.