But he was distracted, and distraught. A courier had arrived the night before, only hours ahead of his daughter's carriage, bearing news that he was loathe to hear. Earl Emerson Arthur, his sworn enemy of so many years, had been appointed Secretary of State for Scotland. And full of his new-found authority, the vindictive old man had decided to abandon his long siege---waiting for some damning evidence to arise against his rival---and decided to attack instead, on Purceville's own ground, while the tide of disfavor was still strong against him. A review was to be called, if not a formal Inquest, and evidence gathered to dismiss him. And while losing his seat as Governor was not a literal matter of life and death, to the aged and slowly despairing Lord Purceville, the two amounted to one and the same thing. For no man is so strong that he can hold off forever the grim whisperings of age. His power and station were all that remained to him, a last shield of illusion, which so narrowly blocked out the sureness and finality of Death. Without it, he would have to look its grim harvest square in the face. And for all his mockery and outward courage (unfeigned), this was something he was consummately unwilling to do. Now he was cornered. And the cornered beast is most to be feared. Twenty-Two Several hours later a man-servant came to the women's quarters to announce: "The Lord Purceville," (his exact words), "requests a private interview with his daughter." Whatever their desired affect, upon hearing these words something shook in Mary's heart, as she felt again the sudden pang of the orphan. Because she realized in that moment that this simple phrase, `his daughter', had never once been applied to her. For an instant the tears started in her eyes; and for all her fear of him, her one desire was to run and fall weeping in his arms. But then she remembered all that her mother had told her. She remembered, too, the life of empty hatred to which he had driven her, at the cost of all that was gentle and giving inside her. And the way he had burned her very corpse. The tears stopped. A look of such implacable will came into her eyes that the widow Scott, who had been plaiting her hair in preparation, took a step back in dismay. All the brooding anger that she had once seen in Stephen, the forerunner of violence, now showed itself in the girl, with a keener edge, and yet whiter fire. "Mary, listen to me," she whispered closely. "You must not do or say anything to upset him. Our lives, all of them, are in his hands." But her words were without effect. Mary stood like a fierce, enchanted statue, waiting only for the sculptor to finish, to come to life and fulfill its vengeful purpose. And when the last lock of hair was in place and bound she stalked silently from the room, following the startled servant.