So cold it was, so cold, and she so helpless; she cast more peat on the fire and prayed that some one might come; that some one, in this valley of the dead, might be living and come. Through the long, bitter night she knelt so, holding him, till her limbs were stiff with his weight; he spoke no word, only his struggling breath showed that he lived. With the first breaking of the pale gray dawn, he turned his head toward the open door. “I hear horses,” he said. Delia started from a half-swoon. “I hear none,” she answered. “They come,” he whispered. “I am dying so slowly—” “God knows,” she said wildly. Another silence as a faint light filled the room and the winter dawn spread above the mountains; then he spoke: “When I am dead—take my pouch,” he said through labored breaths. “It holds—Dundee’s spy-glass—I want ye to have it—for staying by me now—” She cried out in a passionate pity. “I would not have left a dog, Macdonald!” “So cold,” he whispered. “The world is freezing into death—I see the mountains changing into snow and falling—I feel the earth dissolve into an icy sky and all my life ebb from me—so cold—hark!—the horses!” Delia could hear them now. “Why, there is hope,” she cried, “some help is here.” Even while she uttered the words the entrance was darkened by the approaching horsemen. Now some one had slipped from the saddle and was standing on the threshold. The dying man shuddered in Delia’s arms. “Margaret Campbell!” he murmured. Lady Breadalbane turned sharply to him. “So one Macdonald lives!” she said, and shivered through her heavy furs. “Have ye brought forty Campbells to murder him!” shrieked Delia. Lady Breadalbane looked in keen curiosity at the haggard woman who held the Macdonald’s head. “Do not use that word!” she cried. “We are innocent of this night’s work—innocent, I say! Who are you to look so at me?” “Why have ye come?” asked Delia bitterly. For answer the Countess swept across the room, dropped on her knees beside Ronald and took his hand. “I came,” she said in an eager tone, “to find if any lived—to find you—Ronald—we are innocent, you understand—innocent!” He was gazing up into her lovely face with a passion even the chill of death could not quench utterly. “What do you want—Margaret Campbell!” She snatched a paper from her bosom and held it with a trembling hand out to him. “Put your mark to this,” she answered hoarsely, “to prove ye believe that my lord is guiltless of this—” “Ah!” burst out Delia, “is not Glenlyon your husband’s man?” “Silence!” commanded the Countess. “I speak to him—” “What has he to gain from you that his last act should be to testify to a lie?” “It is no lie—this is government work not ours!” Delia raised flashing eyes. “Then if Breadalbane is innocent—wherefore do ye trouble?” she cried. “That he may prove to all the world the Macdonalds hold him guiltless—Ronald—will ye put your mark.” “No,” said Delia. “She asks too much—by Heaven, too much!”