His face hardened, disdaining to answer. He glanced away, but she, ignoring the repulse, crossed the polished floor with a sweep of satin and put her hand on the back of his chair. “It is not true, my lord,” she asked, “this tale—it is some slander of the Jacobites?” He looked at her sideways in a manner that made her blench. “Has my Lord Wharton been giving you his version of this tale?” he asked. She answered, very quietly. “He—and others—it is in the air—and because I know—something of what happened three years ago when this affair of the Macdonalds was first broached—” “So—you care to remind me of that?” he interrupted hotly. Her wide eyes held a mournful steadiness. “Why not my lord? You need not fear any knowledge of mine! That the Macdonalds actually took the oath is now common talk—tell me—is this story of the massacre the truth?” Very intently and earnestly she looked at him. “It is horrible,” she said, “the cruelty—the treachery—babies slain and little children dying of cold—my lord, my lord, you did not sanction it?” He turned his head slowly toward her. “You may think so if you will,” he answered coldly. Her hand fell from his chair, she drew back a step. “Then—it _is_ true?” “I shall not deny it—if you care to think so you may.” The look of aversion that was so at variance with her soft face sprang into her eyes. “Is that your answer? You will not deny it?” “No,” he said indifferently, “neither to you nor to any other.” “They will ruin you for it,” she cried breathing quickly. His eyes flashed; he thought she would had she dared have finished her sentence, “and I shall be free.” “They may try,” he said. “It will interest you, will it not, madam?” She flung up her head in a desperate manner. “It interests me more to know whether you are or are not the infamous wretch these people paint you.” Lord Stair’s usual pallor deepened. He tightened his lips and would not speak; his wife considered him with baffled eyes, hesitated, then broke into open appeal. “I would take your word,” she cried. With a little kindness of voice or tone or look, with a gentle gesture, a denial of the guilt that was at least not his, he could have won her now, won her to believe in him, to stand by him; he knew it but he would not soften, retract or explain, not by so much as a little word would his pride deign to bridge the gulf between them. He stared at her coldly with a bitter smile. “Madam, I shall not offer you my word,” he answered. “It is of little matter what you think of me.” She moved away from him quivering, with outraged eyes. “Very well,” she said below her breath, “I shall know what to think of you. If you did this thing—if the blood of those babes is on your head.” He rose suddenly; the George hanging to the collar of knots and roses heaved and glittered with his angry breathing. “Keep this talk for those who are your usual company, madam,” he said fiercely. “What do you think the brats of savages are to me?”