At first she stood fixed, as if the extremity of distress had converted her into stone; but in a minute, the pride and violence of her temper, outbraved as she thought herself on her own threshold, enabled her to reply, "Yes, insulting hag, my fair-haired boy may die, but it will not be with a white hand.

It has been dyed in the blood of his enemy, in the best blood of a Cameron--remember that; and when you lay your dead in his grave, let it be his best epitaph that he was killed by Hamish Bean for essaying to lay hands on the son of MacTavish Mhor on his own threshold.

Farewell--the shame of defeat, loss, and slaughter remain with the clan that has endured it!" The relative of the slaughtered Cameron raised her voice in reply; but Elspat, disdaining to continue the objurgation, or perhaps feeling her grief likely to overmaster her power of expressing her resentment, had left the hut, and was walking forth in the bright moonshine.
The females who were arranging the corpse of the slaughtered man hurried from their melancholy labour to look after her tall figure as it glided away among the cliffs.

"I am glad she is gone," said one of the younger persons who assisted.

"I would as soon dress a corpse when the great fiend himself--God sain us!--stood visibly before us, as when Elspat of the Tree is amongst us.