The musicians were playing the delicate melody of a pavan in Lady Breadalbane’s ball-room, the air was heavy with the scent of the white and pink roses that decorated the walls and the rhythmical movements of the dancers were reflected in smooth pale floors. In a little card-room opening on the ball-room sat Breadalbane and the Earl of Stair, in converse. Breadalbane appeared ill and anxious; his delicate face was pale and drawn, his manner strained to composure and quiet. Their discourse lay round the word now in the mouth of all Scotland, Glencoe. “Ye hae heard?” said Breadalbane, “that the King’s commission appointed to make the inquiry canna be kept off it ony longer. The feeling is ower strang.” The Earl of Stair’s foot beat time softly to the pavan; he gazed with an inscrutable face toward the distant dancers. “Tweeddale and the other privy councilors will hold this investigation in a day or so—even ye, my lord, canna stop them.” Still the other made no answer. “Ye hav’na’,” continued Breadalbane, “the power ye had, my lord, tho’ to the world ye seem at the pinnacle o’ fame—but the Presbyterians and the Jacks together will be too strang for ye noo.” The Earl’s blue eyes flashed. “I do not dread the inquiry,” he said. “Albeit it is conducted by my enemies—my bitter enemies, Johnstone and Tweeddale.” “Ay,” answered Breadalbane, “ye hae mony enemies, and they’ll ruin ye if they can, but ’tis _ane_ bitter enemy has wrought this.” “Who mean ye?” frowned Lord Stair. Breadalbane lifted his shoulders. “I dinna ken—ye should ken best—some one has been at work—persistently, during these three years this tale has been abroad, through the non-jurors, the Jacks—to your enemies in Parliament—till all Scotland is roused. Who is at the bottom of it?” Lord Stair turned slowly to the speaker. “A tale springing from the Jacks,” he said scornfully. “Will any believe it? It does not trouble me. I have not even heard their version.” “Ye are ower sure, Lord Stair—the work has been slow but certain—the tale is in every mouth.” “What tale, my lord?” “The tale o’ what they call the massacre o’ Glencoe.” “What do they say?” asked Lord Stair with a disdainful smile. “They say that the Macdonalds were murdered by your orders—they say that the soldiers entered the Glen by black treachery, feigning friendship, that they lived there ower a fortnicht, feasting and drinking, that they rose one nicht and murdered the clan in their beds, butchered them, men, women and children, with every cruelty—that is the tale they tell, Lord Stair.” “It is a lie.” “Yea—it is a lee—but ye canna, I ken, prove it a lee. The inquiry will be behind closed doors—it will be conducted by your enemies; ye hae all Scotland believing this lee—and against ye.” Lord Stair spoke impatiently. “Every soldier under Glenlyon knows that this was a military execution—every man among them can disprove this wild tale of the Jacobites—”