But Ian cast a wistful glance at his weather-stained plaid. “Glengarry has an Andrea Ferrara,” he said, with eager blue eyes on his brother. “Let him keep it,” returned Ronald shortly. “I am content with my bow and my dirk.” “You are in an ill mood,” said Ian. “I remember when ye could not sleep for longings such as these—and when ye found nothing o’ wearing apparel in Jock Campbell’s burning house ye raged extremely.” Ronald turned fiercely. “Do not talk to me o’ Jock Campbell!” he cried. “Ye did not maybe mark how he was decked in satin and velvet like a woman,” Ian interrupted. “I had him under my sword—I had my hand on his wizened throat—when you, you fool, pulled me away. ’Tis you who, for shame, should not talk o’ Jock Campbell!” Ronald flushed and his eyes darkened. “Why—‘for shame’?” he questioned hotly. Ian flung up his head with a laugh. “Because the woman cozened ye—it was not for any motives of prudence, but to please the woman that ye saved his life.” There was a little pause; peering through the gathering dusk Ian marked his brother’s face grow white, and he laughed again, good-naturedly enough. “Will ye deny it?” he asked. “And little thanks ye got—‘I would kill ye,’ she said, and showed her teeth like a cat.” Ronald stared at him as if he had not heard. “Is it not an awful thing,” he said very low, “that she should be Jock Campbell’s wife?” “Do ye care?” asked Ian incredulously. “’Tis an ordinary woman—and I like not green eyes; also she is false to her finger-tips—like a Campbell.” “Ah, yes,” cried Ronald wildly, “she is false and doubly false. She has the trick of smiling when she lies—there is a poison in her breath that doth infect her kisses with a deadly sweetness, and in her eyes a witchcraft lurks to drive the blood too fast for bearing—I would that she or I were dead!” A low wind was abroad; it blew the ice-cold snowflakes hissing into the lazy fire, and shook the tassels of the firs against the darkening trail of clouds. Ian drew himself up in silence; Makian was asleep behind them, close wrapped in his plaid. It was too dark to see more than the outline of his figure. The vast forms of the distant mountains were fast absorbed into the general grayness; it grew colder and a great sense of awe came with the dark as if an unseen presence whispered: “Hush!” “I would be fighting,” said Ronald suddenly through the dusk, “I would be in the press and sweep of arms, the lift and music of the battle-cries—or I would lie dead and careless of the eagles that pluck at my heart—smiling perhaps—not heedful of the pain that stabs there now!” “But ye have had your fill o’ fighting,” said Ian, shuddering under the sting of the wind. “At Killicrankie—when Dundee died. I have need to repine, who stayed guarding Glencoe while ye fought.” Ronald’s voice came in answer, melodiously.