He looked surprised that her endurance should be exhausted already; hesitated with a desire to be rid of her encumbrance. She put out her hand and touched him delicately on the shoulder; for the first time he saw her eyes, green and very bright, as she leaned forward. “Ah,” she said very softly. “You would not leave me—when I am lost—or make me ride when I am like to faint—find me shelter for awhile, Macdonald!” “I would not have left you,” he answered, “and though I know none of you, Helen Fraser, I will find you shelter.” There was a wattled hut near by, often used as an outpost by the Macdonalds in their plundering raids; he turned toward it now; it was very little off the road to Glenorchy. Helen Fraser looked at his great figure before her, his resolute strength, his firm face, and she gave a little inscrutable smile. CHAPTER II THE KISS Ronald Macdonald had kindled a peat fire in the hut and strengthened it with dried fir boughs from the stack of wood in the corner. A bright flame leaped up and showed the rude interior, the mud walls, the earth floor, the rough-hewn log seat and the figure of Helen Fraser taking off her dripping red coat. She flung it over the log, swept off her hat and stood straight and slim in her close brown dress, while she held her hands over the flame. Macdonald, leaning against the wall, looked at her and wondered. She was young and very slender; eminently graceful; her hands were perfect; she had an oval, clear white face, a thin scarlet mouth, eyes narrow and brilliant, arched red brows and a quantity of red-blonde hair that hung damp and bright onto her shoulders. Macdonald had never seen a woman of this make before; now he had her close and could study her at his ease, he found her grace and self-possession wonderful things. The sight of her hair as she shook it out to dry made his face cloud for a moment. “’Tis the Campbell color,” he said. She smiled over her shoulder. “I did not know that till to-day,” she answered. “Many of the Fraser’s women have hair like this.” She took up the long curls in her white hand, and held them in the firelight where they glittered ruddy gold. Her green eyes surveyed him. They looked at each other so a full minute—then he spoke. “Why did you strike me when you rode past?” She gave a sudden laugh. “My whip slipped—I meant it for the horse,” she said, “not for you, Macdonald of Glencoe—why should I?” The thick peat smoke, that circled round the hut before it found the rude aperture that served as a chimney, made her cough and shudder. “Where are we now?” she asked. “By the entrance to Glenorchy,” he answered, gazing hard at her. “Ah,” she said, “Jock Campbell’s lands—his castle lies there, you said?”