Marjorie Bowen

“ The mist began to lift a little, the dim forms of the surrounding mountains became visible; the leading Macdonald stopped his men and looked about him: the mist had confused even his innate knowledge of the country. Such of the landscape as they could see was pure desolation, vast brown hills and tracts of heather: there were no roads, not so much as a foot-path to guide them.
The only sign of life was an eagle who circled high above their heads, and now and then swept into view, screaming dismally. ”

“ It was the sound of the jingle of harness, the soft thud of horses' hoofs on the heather: a party of horsemen riding near.
With the stealthy alertness of men who are always either hunters or hunted, the Macdonalds drew together in the pass; the foremost threw themselves flat on the ground and closed their hands round their dirks. The mist was closing round them again, but it was not so thick that they could not discern a group of horsemen crossing the pass at a swift trot. ”

“ 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." ”