Again she waited, but no answer came.
"I know now," she continued, her rich tones low and flute-like, "that in Lachlan McDonald I have in my service as fearless a gentleman as ever served a lady in distress."
Lachlan's black eyes were stern and hard. He knew that under his swarthy skin the blood suffused his cheeks, and this knowledge added to his anger.
"You have done ill," he said slowly, "and Almayne has done ill. I cannot but blame you both."
She turned to him a pair of flashing eyes.
"Sir," she cried, "I am not accustomed to be scolded!"
A quick answer rose to his lips, but reining in her horse, she cut him short.
"We will wait here," she said, "until the others come."
They sat their horses in silence, neither looking at the other. Two spots of colour blazed in her cheeks, her head was high. On a swaying twig of a willow-oak above the trail a black and russet sanguilla sang an evening song. As Lachlan watched it idly, a blue-gray shape swooped from beyond the tree-top, wings darkened over the singing bird, long claws reached down and snatched it from its perch. Jolie, aware that the song had ceased, glanced upward. She did not see the hawk dashing onward, its victim dangling from its talons.
