She seated herself in a large oak chair that almost concealed her slender figure; her buckle shoes were held out to the blaze; her fine, thin face was outlined against the ruby head cushion; she sighed, finding herself tired. One of the boar-hounds had found its way in and lay by her side; her long white hand hung idly down and caressed his silky ears; all her movements were very graceful; her body as supple as her face was unmoved and hard. The heavy clock in the corner had struck ten, but she gave no sign of impatience; her lids drooped over her brilliant eyes, though her firm, thin mouth was unrelaxed. It struck the half-hour. She looked round; the table was set, nothing was wanting for her husband’s welcome; she lapsed into musing again. Presently she started into alertness; there was a sound without; the door opened suddenly. “Jock!” she cried and sprang up. A slight gentleman in a shining cuirass stood in the doorway. In a second the dog was at his side and the woman half way down the room with out-held hands to meet him. “Jock!” she said again; the change in her was wonderful; she flushed into an animated color, all hardness left her face; with sparkling eyes and parted lips she came to him. “Weel,” he smiled, “I didna’ think ye would be lost on your own Hielands.” He stooped and kissed her; then with a sudden half-laugh to hide the unsteadiness in his voice: “Ye gave me a bitter moment, Peggy, when I found ye had missed us.” “’Twas the mist!” she cried. “I dropped my whip and turned back for it—then the mist thickened; ah, my dear, ye canna ken how lonesome I felt alone in the wild hills.” She trembled; her overwrought control leaving her at sight of him; he led her to the table and drew her down beside him; he was more relieved at sight of her safe in Kilchurn than he would have cared to put into words, and it was with a sigh of relief that she looked at him; she had had disturbing visions of the wild Macdonalds meeting the hated Breadalbane. She sank on a little stool beside him while he eat his supper, with her green eyes, very soft now, on his face. He was a man of a remarkable appearance; of a very elegant build and upright carriage, though barely of the middle height; his face was thin and hollow in the cheeks, his lower jaw projecting gave him a sinister expression; his nose, a high aquiline, his eyes large, light gray and very restless; his thick brown hair of a blond so pale that it appeared gray. There was an air of great delicacy and dignity about him; he smiled continually, but taken without the smile the face was hard and cruel. When he looked at his wife, however, it entirely softened and his unpleasant eyes flashed into a passion that redeemed them as she caught his free hand and laid it against her cheek. “’Tis the last time I lose sight of ye when we cross the Hielands, Peggy,” he said. “Did ye meet any?” “Yea,” she answered under her breath; “a Macdonald o’ Glencoe.”