She was leaning against the wall; her eyes indifferently on the smoke and flame; then suddenly she lifted them and Macdonald started; they were such a vivid color, green as those of a wildcat. “You are bold to come so near Glenorchy when you have burnt Jock of Breadalbane’s house,” she smiled. “He is in the Lowlands,” Macdonald answered. “And I have said—no Campbell would follow where I go—to Glencoe—though Campbell of Breadalbane is serpent-cunning and very full of lies.” “You hate him very deeply?” she questioned. His frank eyes flew wide. “He is the loathed devil of all the Campbells,” he cried, “surely you know that?” She gave a little laugh. “What are his qualities?” she asked. “Why do you hate him so?” “Ask every soul in the Highlands or the Lowlands,” he answered fiercely, “and if ye find one to say a good word for Jock Campbell—then will I tell ye of his qualities.” He came across the hut and stood towering over her. “I do mistrust you,” he said. “I think you are over quiet.” She drew herself a little closer against the wall, the green eyes glittered up at him. “I think you are a Campbell,” said Macdonald, breathing hard. “By Christ, I am not,” she answered resolutely. “Nor any friend of theirs.” There was a little pause, the heavy sweep of the rain without came distinctly, mournfully, and a low wind howled through the rough window. Macdonald gazed into her eyes: she did not wince, but suddenly smiled; the color came into her cheeks. “Ye have a wonderful face, Helen Fraser,” he said. “Are you a princess of the clan?” “I am Lord Fraser’s daughter,” she answered, “and heiress of our family.” “They should be proud of you,” said Macdonald. “Are you a maid or wife?” “I am unwed,” she said, “and am ever like to be, for I do find it hard to love.” He turned away from her and pointed to the log. “Will you sit?” he said with a grave courtesy. She complied at once with a deepening of her smile. In one corner was a pile of skins; Macdonald lifted these and brought out from under them two goblets of pure gold. As he raised them he looked at the woman; she showed through the cloudy smoke brown and gold and brilliant; her hair was as vivid as the little tongues of flame she held her hands over. “From the Campbells,” he said, putting the goblets down, “and this from the King—in France.” He brought out a slender bottle of wine and stripped off the wicker covering. “We keep these things hidden here,” he explained, “so that when any cannot reach the Glen they may find food.” He turned over the skins and heather till he found a rough cake of grain. Helen Fraser rose and came up behind him. “Are these your takings from the Campbells?” she asked, and picked the goblets up. They were very handsomely engraved with the arms of John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane. Macdonald lifted the glittering wine with an eager smile. “We drink as royally as Jock Campbell with his Lowland luxuries,” he cried. “This is King’s wine.”