“Three,” she said in a choked voice, staring down at Ronald. “God bear witness that it is three that he has taken from me—three men wantonly slain.” She put her hand over her distorted face and swung round toward Glenlyon. “Why have ye stayed?” she asked. He came slowly near to her, looking at her strangely. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Live. Live to—” she dropped her hand from her face and pressed it to her bosom. “I am going—to make a man pay the price of the blood he has shed—to pay the price.” “What is your name?” asked Glenlyon. “Delia,” she said indifferently, and she moved toward the door; the cold light was full on her pale face and her long fallen hair dark over her shoulders. Glenlyon followed, his sword clanking on the floor. “Come with me.” His voice came unsteadily. “You may command me,” he said. As if she suddenly realized him, Delia lifted her head; he flushed under his tan, and in a troubled way took off his beaver. “Give me—your hand—if I might.” The brown eyes considered him: “Robert Campbell—what do ye mean?” she asked wildly. “I have my life’s work—I have told you—” “Will you come with me?” he asked again. “Will you—trust me?” Delia’s glance fell to the dead man; then she looked away down the valley: slowly back at Glenlyon. “I think I will,” she said, and held out her hand. BOOK TWO CHAPTER I THE RECKONING It was the very height of spring in Edinburgh; the middle of May, 1695; the warm sunny day was fading into dusk and the street lamps were lit and glittering yellow through the twilight. Before a magnificent mansion in the finest part of the city, a large crowd was gathered, an angry crowd that surged up and down, murmuring dangerously. And in the front room of the mansion a man sat alone and listened to that ominous sound without. The vast room was unlit and the long windows open to the balcony and fresh spring air; the heavy furnishing was splendid to excess; its one occupant sat before a gold harpsichord, leaning against it, with face turned toward the window; close to his elbow stood a crystal vase of early white roses and violets and on the white wall behind him was painted a cluster of hollyhocks and pinks. He was sumptuously attired in heavy white satin that shimmered in the dusk; round his neck hung the dull gold knots and roses of the collar of St. George, and below his knees the bright blue of the Garter showed; there were patches on his face and his black ringlets were elaborately curled and powdered in the front. His unbuckled sword lay along the harpsichord; now and then as the murmur rose to a shout he laid his hand upon it and his black brows frowned. For John Dalrymple, first Earl of Stair, felt very keenly to-night what it meant to be the best hated man in Scotland. After a while he arose with a stir of perfume and crossed midway to the window.