William looked toward the bulbs with the interest of the born gardener; in the warmth they gave out a faint sickly fragrance, a sense of young green. “They are very well,” remarked the King with satisfaction. “If I ’ad keep them in water they would not smell so—is it not charming? Like it come through the window at Saint Loo.” He smiled on Sir John, who bowed without a word and left the room. As he passed down the long gallery, he met Argyll. “Ye look miserable, my lord,” he cried with a hard laugh. “Read this.” He held out the letter the King had just signed. “Weel,” said the Earl peevishly. “What may this be?” Sir John lowered his voice. “The authority—the warrant you asked for, my lord. The King saith he is no man’s puppet—but he has served my turn now—he signed and did not read this—look here—my Lord Argyll.” He pointed out a clause in the letter; it ran: “As for Makian of Glencoe and that tribe, if they can well be distinguished from the other Highlanders, it will be proper for the vindication of public justice to extirpate that set of thieves.” CHAPTER XXII THE RESOLUTION OF DESPAIR Delia Featherstonehaugh sat in her miserable little lodgings in Southwark and looked across the gaunt room at Jerome Caryl. He had told her how the cold clemency of the King had thwarted all the schemes of the Master of Stair, how all evidence against them was destroyed. Delia listened with no look of joy or relief; she gave a bitter laugh. “So it has all been for nothing—nothing,” she said. “Why could not he have been merciful rather than the Prince—why could not _he_ have done the fine things?” “It is not in his nature,” answered Jerome Caryl. “No,” shuddered Delia; the thought of how he must have gone straight from the shameful bargain he had made with her to break it, of how he must have laughed at her simplicity; had he had his way he would have had her and all of them at Tyburn; the thought was as blasphemy, but it was true. “What will you do?” she asked with the listlessness of misery. Jerome Caryl smiled faintly; he was as a man whose heart has left his work, there seemed no longer any zest for him in what till now had been his life-work. “I must go and put Berwick’s mind at rest,” he said, “and the others—they will be with him, I suppose. As for the plot—” Delia interrupted him “For me the plot is dead—I care nothing what man reigns. What are Kings and countries when your own heart is touched? Has not all we have done turned to nothing! Did not Perseus die for nothing? My God, I have done with plots.”