The Earl stared at the mob a moment and his blue eyes darkened; he knew well enough the value of their shout of horror at Glencoe and despised them the more utterly; he was not afraid that all his enemies together could accomplish his ruin; he had England behind him; and during these three years his worldly success had swept him on and up beyond all meddling with. He helped his wife into the coach; she had turned even whiter: as the crowd shouted she trembled: her husband took no heed of her. One of the servants ran forward to open the gates: the people drew back quietly, waiting in an ominous hush. The coachman whipped up his horses and dashed through the gates at a gallop. Howls, curses, shrieks arose and the mob made a wild onset, but the hoofs of the four plunging horses kept a passage clear and the coach swept free. But the crowd followed and closed about it. Lady Stair cowered in a corner. Stones rattled on the roof and mud was flying at the windows; stones and sticks struck the coachman, the carriage came to a standstill and a wild shout burst forth. The Earl cursed fiercely and flung the window up; they shouted up vile names at him and mouthed foul versions of his misfortunes till his cheek was dark with passion. With a hard face he slipped his hand to his pocket. “Listen!” he pulled the door open and leaned forward. “If ye do not leave go of the horses—if one of you come a step nearer—I’ll shoot the dog.” And he lifted his white and silver gloved hand closed round the glitter of a pistol. For an instant his firm reckless facing of them discomposed the crowd, yet the sight of his lowering dark face as greatly roused their wrath anew. “Ye damned Dalrymple!” shouted one man. “Answer for the bluid o’ Glencoe!” As he spoke he leaped to gain the open doorway of the coach. The Earl seized him by the collar and hurled him backwards into the mass. “By God!” he cried with blazing eyes, “I’ll have the law on you, you hounds—I’ll have you whipped and hanged for this.” His fierce voice rose above the clamor and stirred fury beyond awe. There was a wild dash at the coach and in another moment the mob would have dragged Earl Stair to his death. But Lady Stair had risen from her place in the interior, forgotten by her husband, unknown of by the mob. Now she caught his arm and slipped into view in the doorway. “Don’t fire!” she said; she lifted a beseeching face. The carriage lamps fell on her bright fairness and the shimmer of her dress; the night wind blew her hair and ribbons about her; in the sudden surprise of her appearance the crowd was silent. The Earl’s hand dropped to his side. “Surely you will let us pass,” she said, looking round her in a gentle way. There was no one there who had any wish to shed blood before Lady Dalrymple; she was greatly beloved in Edinburgh and neither her beauty nor her fearlessness failed of their effect. “We willna’ touch ye, mistress,” cried a man. “Stand awa’ frae yer husband.”