The crowd below had gathered in numbers; they pressed close against his iron gates; and from the confusion of voices one word rose distinctly: “Glencoe! Glencoe!” The Earl of Stair stepped onto the balcony and at the sight of him there rose a howl of execration; he frowned down on them with the bitterest scorn and turned into the room again. A stone crashed up at the balcony and again came: “Glencoe!” He glanced at the clock and rang a bell; when the servant appeared in answer, he asked for lights. “And order the coach,” he said. The man hesitated, stopped. “My lord—my lord—you will not go abroad?” “To my Lord Breadalbane’s reception,” answered the Earl. “My lord—does your lordship hear the mob?” The Earl flared with impatience. “I do not ask your attendance—if there be one man in my service not a coward let him drive, it will suffice.” The servant bowed and withdrew, and the Earl stood silent in the center of the room until the man returned and, lifting the candles, set the room in a soft glow. “Draw the curtains,” commanded the Earl. The servant obeyed and as the pink satin was drawn over the dark, without a low groan rose from the waiting crowd. The Earl crossed to the harpsichord, picked up his sword and buckled it on. The servant softly left the room, and the inner silence was unbroken till the rattle of the coach into the yard below. The crowd gave it a low, dangerous greeting as they passed and clamored against the iron railing. The Earl turned a glance out of narrowed eyes at the shrouded windows and his ringed finger shifted his sword up and down in the scabbard. A light footstep made him turn; it was his wife. He frowned; she passed in silence to the harpsichord and with an agitated look at him sank into the seat there. “Will you not send for the soldiers, my lord?” She spoke in a troubled way; with halting utterance and a nervous foot tapping the floor; the Earl considered her a moment; she was pale, her blonde head set off against the crimson and purple of the painted flowers behind her; her mauve and gold gown shone in a bright reflection on the polished boards; a cloak of a delicate opal color was clasped with diamonds over her bosom, the rich black and white of the ermine lining showing as it fell apart. “You are not coming with me?” was his answer, noting her. “Yes—” she gave back hurriedly. “You see—I am dressed—” “Yesterday, you said you would not accompany me, madam,” he commented coldly, “and I see no need.” “I should prefer to, my lord.” “Why?” he frowned. “I—I do not care to be alone—these people outside frighten me.” “There are the servants.” She moved uneasily. “I do not trust servants—indeed, I would rather come.”