``The ravens shall tear his fair hair to line their
nests, before the sun sinks beneath the Treshornish
islands.''
These words recalled to Elspat's mind the whole
history of the last three dreadful days. 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 bag, 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.
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