He knew he would have his sons against him, their hate of the Campbells overweighed every consideration of prudence he could bring forward. He decided he would wait: there was time yet. Let some of the others come in first, let Keppoch of Glenroy, Glengarry or Lochiel lend their pride before he lowered his. Ian and Ronald followed him in silence; though Makian had condoned his son’s saving of Breadalbane as a piece of prudence that had preserved their lives, Ian felt bitter about it and turned a sullen face on his father. Ronald took no heed of any; his blue eyes were gazing blankly ahead; he walked in an absorbed gravity with his mouth set sternly. They had crossed the moor and were entering a ravine between the hills, when Makian stopped, and looking back, motioned ahead. A man on horseback with a following on foot was coming toward them. They were near enough for the Macdonalds to distinguish the tartan of the Camerons, and the three lifted their bonnets as they drew close. The horseman raised his hat. He was a magnificent figure, bearing the dress and manners of a Lowlander, though about him was a Cameron plaid, and he spoke in pure Gaelic. “Well met, Macdonald of Glencoe,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “You come from Kilchurn?” “Yes,” frowned Makian. “And you, Ewen Cameron?” The other laughed. “I go there,” he answered. “A tacksman of yours brought me a letter from King James—I must thank ye for the warning it contained,” he added. “I go now to twist what money I can wring out of my slippery cousin, Breadalbane.” “Will ye take the oaths?” demanded Ian Macdonald. Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel laughed again, and patted the neck of his black horse. “It were the wiser thing for ye to do,” he said. “Will you not profit by your own warning?” Ronald broke in: “Nay, we will take no oaths to a Campbell.” Lochiel’s sharp eyes traveled keenly over the three faces; his own fell to gravity. “Why, you would play the fool,” he said. “These letters are from Caryl, an accredited agent of King James, and His Majesty gives us leave to take the oath to the Dutchman—and to break it.” Ronald’s face grew harder. “It is no question of the kings—I’d see either of them hanged for a gold piece—it’s a question of Jock Campbell of Breadalbane,” he said sullenly. Lochiel, bred in cities and used to courts, smiled at the young Highlander’s unreasoning venom. “Ye have stubborn stuff there,” he said to Makian. “But let me warn ye—take the oaths before it be too late.” Macdonald was flattered by the friendliness of so great a man, but was too proud to show it; and sore from his recent encounter with Breadalbane, spoke with an assurance he was far from feeling. “I am not afraid,” he said loftily. “I will consider about taking the oaths—and ye, Ewen Cameron, will ye be the _first_ to come in?” Lochiel drew himself up haughtily and his dark cheek flushed.