He looked at her curiously; it was rare indeed for her to be anxious for his company; though since his father’s death with no one to foment it, the bitterness between them had grown less active, still he was surprised that she should so far depart from her usual silent avoidance of him as to desire to accompany him to-night—to-night when his servants shrank from driving with him through Edinburgh Town. She waited his verdict anxiously, her slender fingers pulling heedlessly at the roses and violets beside her. “Why not send for the soldiers?” she repeated at length. “They are dangerous to-night—these people.” He lifted his shoulders contemptuously. “I am not afraid of them. It is no more than they have done before. I was never a favorite of the mob.” “Yet these are in earnest—this question of Glencoe—” He turned on her. “Madam—do not let me hear that word. An insensate party cry—begun by the Jacobites; spread by my enemies—a meaningless parrot call—what is Glencoe to me? An act, two years old—a thing cursedly bungled or Hamilton had not left any alive to start this howl.” “Yet the King has ordered an inquiry and appointed a commission, has he not?” The Earl smiled bitterly. “Madam, my enemies have forced the King to head the stronger party—what does he know of it? Nothing.” The servant entered with his master’s hat and cloak; Lady Stair rose with a faint color in her cheeks and drew her hood around her face. They descended the stairs in silence; below the secretary met them with an attempt to keep the Earl within the house. The footmen had refused to ride behind the coach (the Earl was not beloved by his servants). Yet to go unattended: Lord Stair smiled unpleasantly. “Dismiss them,” he said briefly, and himself opening the door stepped out into the portico. Between him and the mob was the cobbled yard, behind the high iron railings, yet it seemed as if this would little assure him safety so fierce a shout burst forth when it beheld him. The Master of Stair had always been hated; though his magnificence, his generosity with money, his recklessness in politics were qualities likely to be beloved by the populace, his excessive arrogance, the horrible tales connected with his house, his aloofness, his lack of amiable vices, his swift and brilliant rise from a mere advocate to the most powerful man in Scotland, were things not to be forgiven by either high or low. And he had always been on the unpopular side, always served the law not the people; he was merciless too, and reckless in making enemies; they who for two years had been working to spread the tale of Glencoe, found that to give some or any point to the general hate of the Master of Stair was as easy as putting a match to gunpowder; the mob shouted “Glencoe!”—as they would have shouted anything that voiced their long dislike; high and low, all Edinburgh, had combined on this pretext to pull the Dalrymple down.