“Be merciful,” she cried. “Dinna gang to Kensington!” But her emotion, her passionate entreaties, the strange hint of warning in her voice were powerless to touch his set purpose. “Neither God nor man,” he said, “can move me—I have sworn to myself to warn the Prince.” The coach suddenly stopped. “I also have sworn,” answered Lady Breadalbane. They both rose; something fell with a clatter on the floor. It was his sword. She put her foot on it; he looked in her eyes and saw that she had unbuckled it while she had lain against him. “By God—trapped!” he said softly. The coach door was opened from without and the bitter night mists floated in. The moon was shining dimly; Jerome Caryl strode to the door; he saw a vast spread of fields before him; Hounslow Heath. A frosty vapor lay over everything; now and then the moon was hidden; a cruel iciness was in the air. Guarding the door stood the two Highland servants, immovable, waiting orders. Jerome Caryl looked from them to the woman behind him. “Is it to be murder?” he asked with a faint smile. She shuddered violently. “Swear on the most sacred thing ye know that ye willna’ gang to Kensington.” “The alternative, madam.” She was silent; she trembled so that his sword jangled under her foot, yet she held herself straight and there was no flinching in her eyes. He answered himself: “It is obvious.” He glanced at the three silent faces. “No one save a woman would have tricked my sword away—give it back to me.” She caught her breath sharply. “No—there must be no fighting.” Jerome Caryl’s eyes narrowed: “So you are going to have me butchered—like a dog.” She called out in Gaelic to the Highlanders. They advanced to the coach door; a wild scorn sprang into Jerome Caryl’s soft face. “Give me my sword,” he said fiercely. “I am a gentleman.” Lady Breadalbane made no answer; she never lowered her eyes from his gaze; nor bent her head nor moved, but she could not speak. He turned to the coach door and leaped to the ground. A fine drizzle of rain was falling and the grass was sodden beneath his feet; the coach lamps shone on the two steaming white horses and showed a bare branched tree that grew nearby; the place was solitary, silent, ghostly. Jerome Caryl looked round him and his blood rose strangely. He turned to the great Highlander who blocked his path. “Let me pass.” For answer they seized him, each by one shoulder; at the feel of their hands on him, the blood rushed to his face, but he held himself still. Lady Breadalbane came to the door of the coach and looked down on him. “Will ye swear not to warn the Prince?” she shivered. “Then ye may gang awa’ a free man.” His beautiful face turned to her unmoved. “I have answered you.” “Then I hav’na’ a choice,” she moaned. Her black figure was outlined against the light interior of the coach as she stood with a hand on either side to support herself, her eyes were very resolute, though her voice fell and broke.