She is fair as a flower after winter, and as tender as the rose flush in which swims yonder star.

When I am with her, almost she persuades me to think ill of honest hatred, and to pine no longer that it was not I that had the killing of Ewin Mackinnon." He gave a short laugh, and stooping picked up an oak twig from the ground, and with deliberation broke it into many small pieces.

"Almost, but not quite," he said.

"There was in that feud nothing illusory or fantastic; nothing of the quality that marked, mayhap, another feud of my own making.

If I have found that in this latter case I took a wraith and dubbed it my enemy; that, thinking I followed a foe, I followed a friend instead"-- He threw away the bits of bark, and straightened himself.