“Well—go on,” she said. “I have no call to be the Campbells’ friend.” He went on at his steady even pace and she said no more. They were crossing a level tract of moor; once she looked back at the men on the fir-tree; the rain was blotting them from sight, but she could see them faintly, dark against the sky. Presently the dismal screaming of a bird of prey broke the desolate stillness. “There is an eagle—has found a meal,” remarked Macdonald. “How he skrieks!” she answered, and leaning from the saddle peered forward. “Look—ahead of us—” A great brown eagle was hovering a few feet off the ground and another circled slowly above him. “What have they found?” whispered the woman. She looked half-eagerly, half-fearfully; they were near enough for her to see a tumbled heap of plaid in the heather with something smooth and shining white in the midst. The eagle wheeled his slow flight closer and she saw that his beak dripped with blood. “Who are those he feeds on?” she asked very low. Macdonald turned the horse’s head away from the eagle’s orgy. “It is Campbell’s tartan and a Campbell’s skull,” he said. “What else?” She was still straining her eyes after the ghastly bundle they were leaving behind them. “It is a woman!” she cried. “Yes,” he answered, “we got her yesterday from Jock Campbell’s house—we burnt a house of his two days ago—you could see the flames from here.” His eyes sparkled with pride. “They were three to one,” he added, “but the Campbells always fight like Lowlanders.” She put her hand to a face grown ghastly white. “You keep your eagles well fed,” she said. “I would not be a Campbell in your hands, Macdonald of Glencoe!” He looked up, puzzled at her tone; he had not properly seen her face nor could he see it now for the collar and the hat; it occurred to him that she did not understand the bitterness of this hate. “There is the sword and the flame between us two,” he said. “A Campbell has not broken bread with a Macdonald for a thousand years—we are the older race and by craft they have the mastery.” “Of the whole Highlands, I do think,” she put in. “Yes,” he cried fiercely. “But not Glencoe—we have that yet, and we harry them and goad them to curses and slay them, and thwart them though we are but two hundred—now my tacksman return home with the plunder of Jock o’ Breadalbane’s house—we left his door-step wet with blood, not for the first time!” She caught her breath. “Some day you will pay the price,” she said, “for he has the Saxons and the Southrons behind him—he is a mighty man.” The Highlander flung up his head. “Let the Saxons try to reach Glencoe,” he said grimly. “Let Jock Campbell turn his claymores out to touch us here—there will be more blood for the eagles at Strath Tay!” She lapsed into silence again; the rain was growing colder, changing into a fine sleet; she was numb and frozen. “Give me rest,” she said faintly, “or I die—is there not one hut in all this barrenness?”