But she had laid her hand on the Earl’s breast and though he sought to move her, kept her place. “Ye hae a bad lord!” shouted another. “But ye are a gentle leddy—stand frae the Earl—” “Madam—retire!” cried her husband, very white. But she took no heed of him. “Give us leave to pass,” she said very softly. They fell away from the carriage door; it was obvious that they would not touch him while she was there; the horses, suddenly freed, dashed ahead. The Earl drew his wife inside and closed the door. “Now, why, madam, why that?” he demanded breathlessly. She drew away with a little shudder to the farthest corner of the coach. The crowd had fallen away to right and left; they were proceeding unhindered. “What did you think I should do?” she answered. He seated himself, leaning towards her. “Did you accompany me, madam, that you might play my good angel?” She looked away. “I knew that they would not touch you while I was there.” In utter amazement he stared at her. “I am much beholden to your—charity,” he said haughtily. She glanced round, saw his expression, and the blood flew into her face. “Spare your gratitude, my lord,” she said bitterly, “I would have done as much for any.” He frowned. “I did not think that I evoked your peculiar solicitude,” he answered. “Doubtless you like to display your exemption from the hatred my house is held in.” “My lord!” she cried, “that savors of your father’s tongue—and is unworthy.” “You must pardon me,” he said in a proud voice, “but I am not used, madam, to be an object of pity.” Lady Stair gazed from the window blindly on the dark streets. “I did not use the word, my lord.” “Madam, you performed the act.” She turned suddenly in a half-desperate manner. “Do you suppose that I _want_ to see you hurt—or killed?” she asked. He lifted his eyebrows; his face with wrath was near as white as his dress. “I should not have imagined that it would, madam, have greatly afflicted you.” Her blue eyes glared at him curiously. “You strangely misunderstand,” she said slowly, “you are very hard—but I—of late, I have grown more passive—what does it all matter? Think, my lord, what you will.” She rested her head against the cushions and her hands fell together in her lap; her husband turned his head away sharply; her presence was a fret, her sad face a reproach; she had been very quiet of late; from one month’s end to another he took little notice of her, but to-night she was forced on him; he could not help seeing her delicate soft fairness, her drooping mouth; he could not get away from the unhappiness she was a symbol of. They drove in silence; idly Lady Stair pulled at her fan and stared out of the window; moodily he traced patterns on the coach floor with his scabbard point, his face turned from her. So they galloped through Edinburgh and thundered into the courtyard of Lord Breadalbane’s house. CHAPTER II FOREBODINGS