“I was wrong,” she said steadily. “I have something more to say—there are those whom I can save without asking your mercy, the mercy that you have not, Sir John.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “By to-night,” continued Delia, “all London will know that you plan to massacre the Macdonalds of Glencoe.” The Master of Stair swung round. “It shall also be known,” said Delia, with a terrible composure, “that the Macdonalds took the oath and that you and your allies suppress the knowledge that you may not be cheated of your bloody scheme.” The Master of Stair flushed darkly and put his hands to his black velvet cravat as if he would have torn it in rage. “Who told you that?” he exclaimed fiercely. “Does it matter?” she answered. “I know, and all England shall know. And you will not dare to touch them—not even you.” “Who told you,” he repeated thickly. “What spies have I about my affairs? Who told you?” Delia laid her hand on the door. “You can arrest us all,” she said quietly. “You can go to the furthest limits of your law, use your foully-won triumph, but you cannot prevent this truth from circling London.” “Is this charity toward those savages or—revenge?” he demanded hotly. “Pity for them or hate of me?” “Call it what you will,” she answered quietly. “Nothing can stop me. Nay, you can arrest me now, but you cannot close my mouth, nor can you put me in any prison so close that this truth shall not escape—to the very footstool of your Prince, who for shame must hear me—” “Now, if I knew who told you—” said the Master of Stair, “who played this trick on me.” He clenched his hand tightly against the marble grapes. Delia opened the door; it seemed as if she was to go without another word. “Stop,” cried the Master of Stair. She paused, holding the door ajar, and looked back. “Who is the dearer to you,” asked Sir John, “your Jacobite friends or these Macdonalds?” She stared in a slow horror. “I give you your choice,” pursued the Master of Stair. “The Macdonalds did not take the oath before the appointed time—yet they took it. If you and your friends will keep this knowledge secret—if you will neither warn the Highlanders nor rouse the Jacobites—then I will burn those papers I hold.” The door slipped from Delia’s fingers; she moved back and lifted a colorless face. “What is the punishment you have for the Macdonalds?” she asked faintly, “what are you going to do with them?” “Extirpate them,” he answered, “the whole race of them. Now choose—your friends or them.” Delia put her hand to her forehead in a listless weary manner as if the life had died within her. “So—you bargain, Sir John,” she said. “And I—I have no choice between a duty and a sentiment—give me my friends.” “It is a high price,” he answered with a sudden smile. “Those papers against your silence.” “Burn them—burn them,” cried Delia. “Let me see them burnt.” He laughed.