“Maybe you will meet the lady with the red curls again,” she said. He looked curiously at the Saxon woman who had nursed him; his blue eyes held some wonder; he had hardly realized her as yet. “’Tis late to start on a journey,” continued Delia; “dark already.” “Day and night are one to me,” he answered. “And you are very eager to be gone,” she finished with a faint smile. He looked at her half-hesitatingly. “You have been very hospitable to one not of your race,” he said slowly. “Beyond Dunblane, on the beginning of the Highlands, lives an old shepherd who knows me well—if you ever need me send to him and I shall hear.” She lifted her head. “I shall ask for no gratitude, Macdonald,” she said gravely and proudly. “Nor am I like to need you—I have my own kin.” A puzzled expression crossed his face. “Your brother is a Saxon,” he answered. “Most Saxons would have shot me where I lay.” Delia Featherstonehaugh smiled faintly: “My brother is a gentleman.” “And I am a prince of the Macdonalds,” said the Highlander, “and I can bring two hundred men to serve you when you will. They would give their lives to one who had given Ronald Macdonald his.” This sudden high-handed overpaying of what she had done at a moment when she was the most considering him ungrateful, brought a quick flush of shame into her cheeks. “I pray you do not speak of it,” she said faintly. She was leaning against the wall and the candle shook so in her hand that her shadow waved and danced behind her on the paneling; she was very much aware of the nearness of his magnificent presence and the frank half-wonder of his blue eyes turned on her, though her own were very resolutely fixed upon her feet. “Unbar the door,” she asked him, “’tis too heavy for me.” He bent over the iron bolts; as he turned his back she glanced once up then down again. There was a hoarse creaking and the door swung slowly open on the violet night; it was bitter cold; beneath the rising moon great masses of gray clouds lay piled, and a low stinging wind was abroad. Macdonald stepped over the threshold and set his face toward the gates; a little wild smile crossed his face. “Farewell,” he said absently, and turned to leave. A gust of wind blew out the candle and Delia let it drop; with a swish of skirts she came out into the cobbled road, her hair blown about her face. “Macdonald,” she said; he turned and gazed down at her; the moonlight lay on her from head to foot; she was pale and her eyes looked preternaturally large. “Macdonald,” she repeated, then seemed to fumble for her words, “Do you understand?—you must take the oaths.” She laid her hand on the corner of his plaid with a timid eagerness that had its effect. “We will go to Breadalbane’s conference,” he answered, “and if the others submit—”