It was Perseus they carried past. They came so heavily—so slowly; one of his hands hung out and touched the floor. Perseus—dead. She rose up and looked at him. “Dead! Who slew him?” From infinite distance seemed to come the answer “The Master of Stair.” “Dead! my brother—who killed him?” “The Master of Stair.” She fell face downwards across the chair and still through her unconsciousness came: “Who killed him?” “The Master of Stair.” CHAPTER XVIII AN INNOCENT BETRAYAL Viscount Stair listened with an amused smile to the heavy footsteps pacing about overhead; he drew himself closer over the fire and surveyed his lean fingers with eyes twinkling unpleasantly. His son was evidently in an ill-humor; his restlessness had followed on a message from my Lord Breadalbane; something was amiss in Scotland. So the Viscount concluded; he made no attempt to discover what had occurred, but waited patiently, hugging his amusement, confident that his son would not leave him long out of his councils. And even sooner than he had expected the door was flung open and Sir John entered, stormy and frowning. “Ill news from Scotland?” asked the Viscount indifferently. His son gave him a look. “The Macdonalds _have_ taken the oaths,” he answered briefly. “Ah—more prudence among these savages than one might have expected,” remarked the Viscount. “Their prudence will not avail!” cried Sir John. “They did not come in till the sixth of January.” “How ill-considered!” said the Viscount. Sir John sat down heavily. “Breadalbane has sent me the whole tale,” he said. “It seems Makian took fright when he saw the others going in and set out for Fort William to take the oaths—of course (as the old fool fortunately did not know) the oaths must be administered to a magistrate, Hill, I said Hill was untrustworthy—Hill gave him a letter to the sheriff of Argyllshire. Makian started for Inverary, but did not reach it till the sixth—God knows why.” “Probably through making himself drunk at every hut he passed,” remarked the Viscount. “He pleaded the excuse of heavy snow-storms,” said Sir John, “and the sheriff was actually moved by his whinings to administer the oath.” “It will make the Macdonalds feel secure,” remarked his father. “I think that is fortunate.” “But the sheriff has sent a letter to the council at Edinburgh with an account of the whole transaction.” “Need it ever reach them?” asked the Viscount. “I think if it is privately submitted to me I can cancel it—what is an oath of surrender taken on the sixth? Nothing.” Sir John rose. “It shall make no difference,” he said gloomily. “I will make an example of them, whether they took the oath or no—but this must be kept from the King.” “Which reminds me,” interrupted the Viscount easily, “what of those Jacobite papers you were to put before His Majesty? It is a good many days since you announced them as in your hands.”