“The same,” returned Jerome, “may be said of all savages, Miss Delia.”
“But I think the fellow is to be trusted, and who but a born Highlander could traverse this chaotic country with safety and advantage?”
Jerome Caryl shrugged his shoulders and stirred the log on the hearth with the toe of his boot.
“Well, let the matter rest. Only the thing must be done if we are to defeat Breadalbane and the Master of Stair.”
Sir Perseus laughed: “Why, I believe you dislike the Secretary as much as the Edinburgh mob do.”
“I hate his power,” answered Jerome. “The way he rules us all against our will—he and he only prevents Scotland returning to King James—”
“They do say he is accursed of a cursed family,” said Delia. “There are horrid mysteries whispered of him—you have heard?”
“Yes, and I do not think them all vulgar spite—they are a dark race, these Dalrymples,” answered Jerome.
There was a pause, then Delia spoke: “Have you ever seen him?” she asked.
“Once—in Edinburgh—he was riding an ash-colored horse; there was a great train of rabble at his heels, who hooted and pelted him—I did not see his face; he had his hat over his eyes and never looked back.”
“He is used to being mobbed,” said Sir Perseus; “they say that is why he left Edinburgh.”
“I was of the mob,” said Jerome Caryl fiercely, “and I said with the mob what I say now: damnation to the Master of Stair!”
Delia Featherstonehaugh shut the door on Jerome Caryl and her brother and began mounting the stairs of the quiet little house. She could hear the low murmur of the men’s voices through the frail door and a fine pencil of yellow light fell between the paneling onto the blackness without. Delia stood still a moment in an attitude of hesitation, then went on lightly and swiftly.
At the top of the stairs she fumbled in the dark along the wall, found what she sought, a door-handle, turned it and entered. She was in a small room with a sloping roof and a deep bow-window; there was no light, but through this window poured a great flood of moonshine that showed the plaster walls, the simple wooden furniture and the figure of a man wrapped in a plaid, who leaned on his elbow at the window and gazed over the city.
The rough outline of his profile was clear against the square of cold blue sky, and above the housetops above him hung the great white moon.