The Macdonald stopped a pace or two away from him that he might see who this Saxon could be, sitting very still and calm, with his head lifted—haughtily, it seemed. Then he cried out and fell back a step. It was a woman who looked down at him from the brown horse: a proud, still woman’s face that showed in the high collar. She calmly viewed his utter amazement, sitting utterly motionless, very upright. After a second she spoke; slowly, in Gaelic. “What do you want with me?” Her voice sounded thin and unnatural coming through the vast open space; she broke her words with a cough and shuddered as if she was very cold. The Macdonald had stood motionless, eagerly surveying her; when she spoke he came toward her slowly, with the caution and curiosity of a wild animal scenting the unknown. She too looked at him, but covertly, and her face expressed no interest as her eyes dwelt on his magnificent figure and torn and faded clothes; she waited for him without a movement or a word. As he came to her saddle bow he pulled off his bonnet and stood erect in the straight rain, his frank blue eyes on her face. “My name is Ronald,” he said, “and I am a prince of the Macdonalds of Glencoe.” The horsewoman coughed and shivered again before she answered; she had noted the half-sullen, half-proud defiance of his bearing and replied to that: “Why do you speak so?” she said. “You give your speech a turn of bitterness.” He came still closer and laid his hand on her fallen reins. “I thought you were a Campbell,” he said, and watched for the effect of the loathed name on her; there was none; she merely shook her head. “I am a stranger,” she answered. “I came with my kinsfolk on a mere family affair—” His face lightened. “I saw them through the mist,” he said. She looked round her. “And now the mist hath gone and I am utterly lost.” She shivered. Suddenly she glanced down at him; he was very young, of a giant’s make; his square cut fresh face, tanned the color of ripe corn, looked up at her; his clear eyes were very steady under the rough brown hair; she gave a slow faint smile. “Are you too lost?” she asked. “It were not possible for me to lose my way to Glencoe,” he answered. “But I have missed my men.” He was still studying her with a frank absorbed curiosity; she pushed her heavy rain-soaked hat a little off her face and at sight of her red-blonde hair, he cried out, fiercely: “Ye _are_ a Campbell!” Her face expressed a cold surprise. “I am Helen Fraser,” she said quietly, “and no kin to the Clan of Campbell.” It would have been difficult to disbelieve her unconcern; Macdonald hesitated, not knowing what to do. “Will you put me on my way?” she asked as a probe to his silence. “I am wet and cold—and most utterly lost.” At the note in her voice all his Highland hospitality woke. “Will you come to Glencoe?” he asked simply.