“So good of you!” she murmured conventionally, as Steele dropped slightly back among the others who had by this time drawn near.  “To arrive at such an unfashionable hour, I mean!”

His pleased but rather suspicious eyes studied her; he answered lightly; behind them now, he who had been riding with my lady could hear their gay laughter.  Lord Ronsdale was apparently telling her a whimsical story; he had traveled much, met many people, bizarre and otherwise, and could be ironically witty when stimulated to the effort.  John Steele did not look at them; when the girl at a turn in the way allowed her glance a moment to sweep aside toward those following, she could see he was riding with head slightly down bent.

“Good-looking beggar, isn’t he,” observed the nobleman suddenly, his gaze sharpened on her.

“Who?” asked the girl.

“That chap, Steele,” he answered insinuatingly.

“Is he?” Her voice was flute-like.  “What is that noise?” abruptly.

“Noise?” Lord Ronsdale listened.  “That’s music, or supposed to be!  Unless I am mistaken, The Campbells are Coming,” he drawled.

“The Campbells?  Oh, I understand!  Let us wait!”

They drew in their horses; the black one became restive, eyed with obvious disapproval a gaily bedecked body of men swinging smartly along toward them.  At their head marched pipers, blowing lustily; behind strode doughty clansmen, heads up, as became those carrying memories of battles won.  They approached after the manner of veterans who felt that they deserved tributes of admiration from beholders:  that in the piping times of peace they were bound to be conquerors still.

Louder shrieked the wild concords; bare legs flashed nearer; bright colors flaunted with startling distinctness.  And at the sight and sound, the girl’s horse, unaccustomed to the pomp and pride of martial display, began to plunge and rear.  She spoke sharply; tried to control it but found she could not.  Lord Ronsdale saw her predicament but was powerless to lend assistance, being at the moment engaged in a vigorous effort to prevent his own horse from bolting.

The bagpipes came directly opposite; the black horse reared viciously; for the moment it seemed that Jocelyn would either be thrown or that the affrighted animal would fall over on her, when a man sprang forward and a hand reached up.  He stood almost beneath the horse; as it came down a hoof struck his shoulder a glancing blow, grazed hard his arm, tearing the cloth.  But before the animal could continue his rebellious tactics a hand like iron had reached for, grasped the bridle; those who watched could realize a great strength in the restraining fingers, the unusual power of Steele’s muscles.  The black horse, trembling, soon stood still; the bagpipes passed on, and Steele looked up at the girl.

“If you care to dismount—­”

“Thank you,” she said.  “I’m not afraid.  Especially,” she added lightly, “with you at the bridle!”