They had slept on the border of Campbell country, after feeding on Campbell cattle collected by some twenty or thirty Highlanders. Their tightly woven woolen plaids had helped to keep out the cold, and so had the fires scattered along the glen. But Kelpie was glad enough of the red wool hose that Alsoon had knitted for her, and of the warm bulk of Morag beside her.

Now they were heading up Strath Fuile, and the warm-hearted comradeship of the Highlanders became a savage expectation, for here at last was the great enemy ahead. Montrose might talk all he liked of getting to the border to aid the King in England—but a score or two must be settled first. Montrose had had to compromise; otherwise too many of his army would have just slipped away home, taking with them as many stolen cattle as possible.

Now an advance party had gone ahead of the main army to find cattle before the owners could be warned and drive them off to hide in the hills. And Morag Mhor, with a dark and unpleasant grin, had attached herself and Kelpie to them. The men, knowing of her murdered husband and child, let her join them, with a grim jest or two about the fate of any Campbells unlucky enough to run into her.

They rounded a curve in the river, and there before them was a long, low shieling hut with two children playing out in front and a handful of cattle scattered up the hill behind. Morag saw the hut first and was off toward it with a flash of red petticoat. Kelpie wished suddenly that she had stayed with the rest of the women, but she hurtled after Morag simply because it didn’t occur to her to do anything else. Now the men had seen it too, and a menacing yell rose from thirty throats as some of them raced around after the cattle, and the rest—mostly Irish MacDonalds—followed Morag and Kelpie toward the hut.

Even as she was running, the thing inside Kelpie felt sick at what was to come. Campbells they were, certainly, but what fault had the bairns committed? Montrose would be angry, surely, with his scruples about making war on the innocent. Now the children had seen them and were running toward the house, screaming with terror. An ashen-faced woman gathered them to her and then paused in the doorway, uncertain whether to run inside or away into the hills. Kelpie could almost taste the fear in her.

Then Kelpie’s foot hit something soft and yielding. She tripped and flew head first into a patch of wet snow. There was a wail of pain and—the cry of a small child.

Kelpie raised her head from the snow in time to see Morag stop, whirl, and race back toward Kelpie and the child. Was she going to begin her revenge by killing the bairn?

“Is it hurt that you are?” roared Morag, but she was not speaking to Kelpie. She picked up the crying child and stood, her gaunt face twisted with the conflict of feelings going on in her. Then she turned to Kelpie, with the Irish MacDonalds only a few yards from them. “Come on!” she ordered and raced with the child toward the hut and the cowering woman.

Bewildered, Kelpie scrambled up and followed, just barely ahead of the men. Morag thrust the baby into its mother’s arms, whirled, and drew her sgian dhu.

“You’ll not be touching them, whatever!” she bellowed at the astonished giant who led the pack. “Back, or I’ll skewer you, Rab MacDonald! Am I not a woman and mother myself? A plague on men and war! Back, I say!”

She was terrifying; her avenging fury turned to defense of her prey. It was altogether too much for the Highlanders. They stood and stared, a full dozen of them in a semicircle before her.

“Fine brave soldiers ye are!” jeered Morag. “Are ye no afraid to be attacking such dangerous foes? Here’s the wee bairn, now. Will one of you not challenge him to fair combat?”

They shuffled their feet, quite taken aback. The madness that Morag herself had kindled in them trickled out, to be replaced by the Highland sense of the ridiculous. One of them chuckled, and then several others began to roar with laughter. “And is this your own vengeance, Morag Mhor?” they hooted. “I will be remembering this the next time you are clouting me on the ear and send for a bairn to protect me,” added the giant called Rab.

Morag Mhor seemed not to care about the teasing. She stood guard over the grateful little family while the cattle were caught and while the rest of the army arrived on the scene. And, with the backing of Montrose, she defied those who wanted to burn the house.

“I can do no more for ye,” she told the Campbell woman when the army and its captured cattle had started on once again. “You have your bairns and your home—although your Campbell army left me neither, nor husband. I intended to do the same to you, but I could not, for I saw myself in you, and it came to me that a woman’s place is to give life, not to take it. It comes to me, too, that men are a senseless lot with all their useless killing, and perhaps we mothers should be raising our sons to different ideas.”

And then she turned abruptly and headed in long strides back to the Highland army, not waiting for the stammered words of thanks.

Kelpie trailed along at her heels, saying nothing but thinking a good deal.

And so it went, along to Tyndrum and up Glenorchy. Morag Mhor vehemently defended every woman and child they found, against the threats and wild arguments of the Highland soldiers. It didn’t take Kelpie long to discover that all this was a great act put on by the Highlanders for Morag’s benefit, and it was a surprise to her that a woman as shrewd as Morag didn’t know it too. But she never guessed.

“I know you for the braw liar you are,” remarked Kelpie saucily to Rab one morning over their beef-and-oatmeal breakfast. “You will be teasing her every time, and you as softhearted as herself.”

“As ever was,” agreed Rab, rolling a dark eye at her. “But do not be telling Morag, whatever, for it is not just teasing. With the grief of her, she is needing something to fight, but she is happier to be fighting us to save bairns than the other way around.”

Although the campaign through Campbell territory was less bloodthirsty than Kelpie had expected, still it was not pretty. Men of fighting age found little mercy, few cattle escaped the voracious appetite of the army, and more than a few barns and thatch roofs went up in smoke behind it.

Blazing fires and roasted meat were good at night, after long and cold marches. Since there were so few women to do the cooking, the men helped too, with good will and bantering. Kelpie poked at a haunch of beef one chill but clear evening, thinking to herself that they were going a long way round to Argyll at Inverary, in a huge triangle to north and west. Surely by now Argyll would have received word of this invasion! Kelpie wondered what he would be doing about it. The obvious thing would be to come away after them, and she looked apprehensively toward the purple-black hills that surrounded the orange firelight.

“Is there food for a starving—Why, ’tis the water witch!” Kelpie turned to face Archie MacDonald, whose black eyes were sparkling with curiosity. They stared at each other.

“And where did you vanish to that day?” he demanded. “A braw lot of trouble and grief you caused! If you’ve the power to vanish into thin air, you might have been doing it before Ian Cameron was cut down trying to save you.”

Kelpie winced. “Was he killed entirely?” she asked, her heart pounding for fear of the answer.

“Na, na, not entirely. But a nasty wound it was. Still, he survived it, although he had to go back to Glenfern, and no more fighting for the time.” Kelpie saw again in her mind the savage downward sweep of Alex’s broadsword and had to push aside the tumult of feelings that it brought. But—Ian was not dead! Alex had not killed him!

“And Alex MacDonald?” she demanded balefully.

“He’s—away,” said Archie, and it was clear that he was going to say no more. But then, he was Alex’s cousin and not likely to want to speak of it. At least Kelpie knew now that Alex had not been hanged, and she thought again that she might be the one to avenge Ian some day. For she doubted that, even now, Ian himself would raise a hand against Alex. She looked right through Archie, and her slanted blue eyes held no very pleasant expression.

The meat was done now and being divided. Archie pulled his sgian dhu from his stocking, vanished briefly into the crowd of hungry men, and emerged with a smoking hunk for Kelpie in one hand and one for himself in the other. She bit into the meat hungrily and then looked up to find the deep black eyes still fixed on her, and a question in them.

“That day,” he began, with an uncertain note in his voice, “were you sending a call in the mind to Alex before you gave the Cameron rant with your voice?”

Kelpie looked as blank as she felt. “I don’t understand you whatever!” she said warily.

“Why,” he began, and frowned a little, “there we were in the tavern, with Alex and Ian in a fury at each other, and none of us even hearing the sounds outside. It was a braw quarrel, with Ian gone white with the anger in him, and Alex the color of a rowan berry. And then Alex was stopping in mid-word, with an intent, listening look on the face of him, and looking round. And it was because of his silence that an instant later we were hearing the Cameron rant, and Ian shouting ‘’Tis Kelpie in trouble!’”

Kelpie shook her head blankly. “And what then?” was all she said.

Archie shrugged. “Why, then, Ian forgot the quarrel and was away out the door, and Alex after him with drawn sword, and the rest of us collected our wits and followed, not knowing if Alex’s black fury was still for Ian, or for the witch-hunters. His face was a fearful thing to see, and I’m hoping I never meet the like in battle, for ’twould be the end of me. But you know the rest better than I. How was it, Kelpie, that Alex heard you even through the quarrel, and before the rest of us?”

“I don’t know,” said Kelpie absently, her mind on another question altogether. For the thing she had suspected was clear. It was herself had helped bring about the scene in the loch, and hatred of her had caused Alex to strike down his foster brother. It was the only possible explanation, and there was a sore hurt in the thought of it. How could Alex have hated her that much, who had never seemed to hate her at all, but only scorn her? Her short upper lip curled. Och, he would pay for it, just! Even though Kelpie could no longer hope for witchcraft to help her, he would pay for it.

Archie looked at her uneasily. There was a look about her not quite canny, and it was occurring to him that folk called after water witches, who could communicate without the voice, might not be a braw choice for companionship, so he brought her another hunk of meat—to avoid offending her—and melted hastily into the crowd of soldiers.

The army passed the very spot near Loch Awe where Kelpie had first seen Janet Campbell that June day six months ago. And then they were heading at last toward Inverary, through the steep wilds of Glen Aray where she and Janet had gone. And what had been happening to Janet all this time? she wondered. Not that she really cared, she tried to tell herself, except that Janet was a harmless soul and not deserving to be harmed by either Mac Cailein Mor or his enemies.

There was no detour to the top of the hill this time. Straight down the glen the army came, pipes shrieking in ominous triumph. It was a braw sound indeed, a wild song that set the blood running with joyful madness—or the blood of Montrose’s army, at any rate. Kelpie wondered briefly how it sounded to the ears in Inverary. Along the river they marched, half running now, and erupted into the valley, the town of Inverary seeming to cower ahead on its point of land, and the castle—so familiar to Kelpie—to the left.

Morag Mhor was with the men heading for the village, loudly daring them to lay a finger on woman or child, her voice rising as they insisted, grinning, that this time every wee babe would be slaughtered, just. For once, this game had no interest for Kelpie, and she headed straight for the castle. If Mac Cailein Mor was captured, she wanted to be there to gloat.

Everywhere there was clear evidence of surprise and panic. The town and castle, unaware of the approaching invasion, had been celebrating the Christmas season—in their sober Puritan way, of course, with longer and more frequent sermons. Kelpie’s lip curled with scorn for a chief so feckless as not to know what was happening in his own country—or else so sure of his invulnerability that he took no precautions. Och, she could hardly wait to see him taken prisoner! Her small white teeth fairly glittered in her smile.

She had just reached the castle wall when a shout of dismay and fury broke out. Kelpie rushed to a high knoll where she could see. Men were pointing to the small bay. A fishing boat was hastily heading out into the loch.

“’Tis himself is running away!” And Kelpie hardly needed a second glance to confirm it. Her keen eyes picked out two red heads, the short bulk of Lady Argyll, the patch of Cameron tartan that was Ewen.

“Ssss!” said Kelpie in savage regret.

The pipes lifted a wild wail of derision. “Oh, the great Argyll!” someone yelled. “Brave General Campbell! What, will you be away off, Mac Cailein Mor, and us just come to visit?”

Montrose wasted no time fuming over what couldn’t be helped, although he must have been bitterly disappointed. The capture of Argyll this day might have changed history—although he had not the Second Sight to tell him how much. Even Kelpie did not know, for the crystal had not yet showed her the scene to come later, when Montrose himself calmly mounted the scaffold.

His face was calm now as he gave orders to set about taking the castle abandoned by its owner. It wasn’t as difficult as it might have been. One couldn’t expect inspired defense from the men who had been left behind while their leader fled. And once Montrose’s men were in full possession, Kelpie entered the castle through those massive gates she had passed through before—but this time with an arrogant sway to her slim body.

She wasted no time with the fine white bread and wine that had been discovered, nor even with the miserable figure of Mrs. MacKellar huddled on a chair in the hall. She knew where she was going, and she wanted to be the first one there.

Argyll’s apartments were deserted. She walked boldly through the massive oaken doors, on into the inner chamber. There was a fine large cairngorm brooch on the table, mounted in silver, bigger than her fist. Fine, that! She looked around. What else?

A thought struck her. The next chamber must be that of Lady Argyll. In she went, and in a moment was kneeling beside a chest of fine gowns. A pity there were none of bright colors. Kelpie had always wanted a gown of flame-red velvet, but of course such a thing would never be found in a Covenant household. Still, there was one of moss-green, and the softest, finest wool she had ever seen, and not so very much too big, provided she belted it tightly about the waist. And she laughed with joy. Here was the fine silver belt she had always wanted.

Next she pulled out a lovely cloak the color of juniper—and she must have it, although it was lined with Campbell tartan—and a silken purse, a linen kerchief, and several baubles. She tried on a pair of square-toed leather shoes with silver buckles, but they hurt her feet sorely, so she kicked them off and went back into Argyll’s room for a silver snuff box she had seen there.

And as she stood, green gown bunched about her waist under untidy thick braids (uncombed since leaving Alsoon), the cairngorm in one hand and the snuff box in the other, the outer door opened.

For an instant memory played tricks on her and she thought that it was Mac Cailein Mor finding her there with the hairs in her hand, and blind panic was on her. Then it cleared as a voice spoke.

“DhÉ!” boomed Antrim. “And whom have we here?”

“’Tis the eavesdropping lass from last summer,” answered Montrose, standing still, taking in every detail.

Kelpie looked back at him fearlessly. He was amused, she could tell. And besides, did not his scruples prevent him from harming women or children, even enemy ones, and she no enemy?

“I see you’ve wasted no time,” he observed mildly. “How is it you’re here ahead even of your army commander?”

“I was knowing the way and wanting to be first,” explained Kelpie artlessly. She waved her loot at him with great pride in her cleverness.

He looked at it, and at her. The corners of his mouth moved slightly. “That would be Argyll’s cairngorm, I suppose?”

She nodded, regarding it happily. Then something occurred to her, and she glanced up at him dubiously from under her thick lashes. Perhaps it might be wise to sacrifice material gain—if necessary—for policy.

“Were you wanting it yourself?” she asked reluctantly. “I will give it to you, if you like. There’s another nearly as good in yon box,” she added, “and this a wee bit heavy for a lass to be wearing.”

Montrose laughed. “No, I don’t want Argyll’s brooch,” he assured her, to her relief. Then he looked at her seriously. “I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you,” he suggested, “that stealing could be a bad thing?”

“Och, aye!” exclaimed Kelpie earnestly, “You must be very canny at it, my Lord, and lucky, too. For ’tis a bad thing indeed and indeed to be caught! But Mac Cailein Mor’s away in his wee boat, and no danger now.”

This time it was Antrim who boomed with laughter, and Kelpie looked at him resentfully. Clearly he had had no experience at getting caught, or he would never be laughing at such a serious matter.

“I didn’t mean quite that, although I’m sure it must be true,” explained Montrose gently, and the corners of his mouth were jiggling again. “I mean, did you never think that it might be wrong to steal, whether you were caught at it or no?”

“Och, no!” said Kelpie, wide-eyed. “But then, perhaps ’tis different for you,” she added kindly. “Being a chief and lord and all, you will be able to get things without stealing them, and I doubt you’re ever hungry, whatever.”

Montrose sighed. “Aye,” he agreed, seeming sad for some reason. “’Tis different for me. You’d best run along now, though.” And he turned to look after her as she left the room.

Kelpie went back to the other wing, picked up an item or two from Mrs. MacKellar’s room, and then stood still for a minute, frowning at nothing at all. Why did people persist in making her think about new and uncomfortable ideas? A few months ago she would have been genuinely puzzled by the notion that it might be wrong to steal, even though a body was not caught at it. But now, even though she had pretended not to know what Montrose meant, the idea wasn’t really as startling as it would once have been. It was the sort of thing the folks at Glenfern might have said, or Ewen Cameron, or even Alsoon and Callum. It undoubtedly had to do with the integrity thing Alex and Ian talked of, and all of them wanting her to apply it to herself. Why should she? Mina and Bogle had taught her that anything was right if one got away with it—but then, Mina and Bogle were evil, and perhaps everything they said was wrong.

Kelpie sighed. On the other hand, Alex talked about those ideas, and he was evil too. So what was a lass to think, at all?

She wandered down into the main hall, which was still a chaos of triumphant men. But she was so engrossed in her problem of right and wrong that she quite forgot to taunt the dejected and weeping Mrs. MacKellar. In any case, it no longer seemed necessary. After all, the housekeeper had been loyal to her chief, and it the only safe thing to do—but would it not be safer now for her to side with the royalist victors?

Kelpie frowned at the red-eyed and unlovely figure of Mrs. MacKellar, for in it there was something undefeated and almost gallant. No, Mrs. MacKellar would never change sides, but would stay loyal to Mac Cailein Mor, even though he was not worthy of it. Why? Did she fear that he would come back? Or was this something like not stealing, that a body did even against his own interest? Was that what integrity was? But what good was it? As far as Kelpie could see, it was more likely to be a nuisance than an asset.

She wandered over to one of the deep-set windows and stared out, unseeing, her whole attention focused on her thoughts. The folk at Glenfern, like Mrs. MacKellar, would remain loyal for always to a person or ideal. This was part of the thing about them which she had sensed from the first—the daftness, the difference. True they would be, whether or not it was profitable or safe, aye, though it cost them their lives—all but Alex. And it was this, perhaps, that had shocked her so. For Alex, surely, would never change sides but would be true to an ideal—and how was it, then, that he could betray a friend?

She leaned her forehead against one of the thick diamond-shaped panes, dimming it even more with her breath, and remembered that Montrose had talked of such things back at Blair Atholl. But neither he nor anyone else had ever explained to Kelpie why this way of acting was desirable. Was it possible that there was some strange kind of happiness in it? Did they have things inside which would make them uncomfortable if they acted otherwise?

Kelpie stopped trying to understand, for she found that there was an argument going on within her. The thing inside her was saying that this was a fine and proud way to be, but her common sense told her that it was not at all practical, and had she not vowed to think of herself first, last, and always? And surely if it was a choice between her own safety and any other thing (and she forced the thought of Wee Mairi from her mind), surely it would be only sensible to look out for herself, as ever was!