“Nay, ’tis a point of honor with me—I will not be the first,” he answered. “But my tacksmen are free to do as they choose, and my tacksmen understand me. Farewell.” He touched his horse up and the Camerons moved on. As Lochiel, haughty and splendid, passed the Macdonalds, he turned a little in the saddle and smiled in the winning way that had won King Charles’s heart. “I will not be the first, Macdonald o’ Glencoe, for my honor’s sake,” he said. “But I would not be the last, for my head’s sake—look to the warning.” His gloved hand touched his black horse, and the Camerons passed on over the wet moor toward Kilchurn. Ronald scowled after him; Ian cursed impatiently, but Makian resolved that his prudence would do well to take the hint his pride had received ungraciously. Before Lochiel was out of sight they were on their way again. The snow began to fall faster; it was late afternoon and the light fading to a heavy grayness; against the hard color of the sky the flakes showed a dazzling white, and in the hollows of the rocks they began to lie in tiny drifts. Beside a narrow cave that looked full on the ravine, the Macdonalds halted. In the shelter of an overhanging rock, Ian kindled with some difficulty a fire; and Makian produced provisions from his wallet, and laid them in silence before his sons. Ronald sat over the thin smoky flames, morose and sullen; he pushed away the food offered with the back of his hand, and sat staring over the blank landscape, while the others ate. But he was not left long alone. Presently Ian, warmed with his food and forgetting his grievance, came and flung himself beside him. Ronald eyed him coldly, then turned his head away. He was desperately out of humor and had no care about the hiding of it. Ian, in every respect the same to look on, save that he was darker, rougher in make and fiercer in manner, was yet of a nature more simple, more easily pleased if as easily angered; secretly, he greatly admired his younger brother. He glanced over his shoulder at Makian, sitting placid in the mouth of the cave with blank blue eyes considering mischief, and spoke in a whisper to Ronald. “Did ye mark Lochiel’s coat?” he said eagerly. “With the gold braid on it—and his satin vest and gloves like the King? Lochiel’s a great man.” Ronald gave no answer. “And his sword,” continued Ian. “An Andrea Ferrara with a basket hilt—” “I did not mark it,” answered Ronald without looking round, but Ian was not to be repulsed. “Macdonald o’ Keppoch has a red coat like that—of the fine cloth with gilt buttons—I saw it when I was in Glenroy—Keppoch got it when he sacked Inverary and he carries it about with him, valuing it greatly.” His eyes shone with a fierce envy. “I would have a coat like that, and boots with buckles and fringes.” “Lochiel bought those clothes in King Charlie’s time—they’re years old,” returned Ronald scornfully.