“Ronald—I will kiss thee,” breathed the Countess. “I will put my arms about thee—hold thee even as she does—to my bosom—so thou mark’st this.” He turned from Delia toward her. “Breadalbane is blood-guilty to the soul,” he gasped. “Yet kiss me—and I will sign—thy lie.” She took a pen and inkhorn from her pocket, dipped the pen and put it between his slack fingers—while Delia tried to force her back. “Ye shall not do it!” she cried desperately to Ronald. But he took no heed of her. “Kiss me—” he murmured, “Margaret! Margaret!” She caught hold of him, thrusting Delia aside. “Margaret!” “Sign!” shrieked the Countess at sight of his face, but he rolled out of her arms between them. “Ye are too late!” cried Delia, springing up. Lady Breadalbane gave one look at his dead face, then rose also. “Well, we do not care, Jock and I,” she said in a quiet fury. “I think there are no Macdonalds left to harry us—and we can face the world.” She turned to the doorway and beckoned the man who stood there. “The man is dead,” she said, flinging back her red hair. “And he has not given testimony, Glenlyon.” “No, thank God, thank God!” sobbed Delia wildly. Glenlyon looked from one to another. “My lord must bear his own deeds,” he said slowly. The Countess’s green eyes blazed. “This deed is not his,” she cried. “But thine, Robert Campbell!” “Do you deny me, then?” he answered heavily. “Ay—thee and they works—never look to my lord to share the burden of the blood that ye have shed to-night!” “So—ye cast me off?” asked Glenlyon thickly. She laughed magnificently. “If you say that my lord bid you do what you have done—why then we do—cast you off, Glenlyon.” “There are others know the truth.” It was Delia spoke. Lady Breadalbane glanced at her fiercely. “You?” she said. “I—and Jerome Caryl.” The Countess fell back before the name and clutched at the lintel of the door; then recovered herself and laughed aloud. “He is dead—your Caryl.” Delia shrieked. “Dead!” “Who was he that he should not die?” “Dead!” “Have I not said so?” “How died he?” Lady Breadalbane put her hand to her bosom and drew herself to her full height. “Put the deed down to those who did this work about you—there are those who did not care to see him go free from Kensington.” “He was—murdered?” “He was found dead.” “Jerome dead! By whose orders?” Delia’s tone had dropped to dullness. She seemed to be re-acting some old and ghostly dream; she had said such words before—and now the answer came the same. “The Master of Stair,” said the Countess, looking her full in the face. “They found him dead on Hounslow Heath; which was the more likely—highwaymen or the Master of Stair?” “Ye think that by his orders Jerome Caryl was slain?” “I leave it to ye,” answered the Countess and with a fierce abruptness she was gone. They heard the thunder of her escort down the Glen as the Campbells swept away. Delia came forward with clenched hands.