With one hand on the chimneypiece and her face showing in the flickering candle-light, Delia spoke in a quiet shuddering manner. “As your downfall has been coming—slowly, Lord Stair, have you never thought of me? As Glencoe has been dragged to light—slowly—have you never thought of me? As your enemies have risen around you with this forged tale to dishonor you—have you not thought of me? As you have heard of witnesses suborned, of cunning lies to displace you, have you never thought of me?” He stood immovable. “I have thought of you. Yet I did not think this was your work.” “No—you would not, Lord Stair—yet from the first whisper to the consummation it is my work—day and night for three weary years I have given body and soul to this end and now I think I can say—I have avenged my dead.” Her voice had no ring of triumph in it; on her last word it fell to a sob; she leaned back against the wall and her head fell forward on her bosom. Lord Stair came a step nearer. “So—you set yourself to ruin me?” “Yes, I.” “From you sprang the tale of Glencoe?” “Yes, from me.” “You caused the Macdonalds to bear false witness?” “I have been at the bottom of it all, Lord Stair.” She raised her head. “I have put that upon you you will never be free of,” she said wildly. “Throughout the world your name is stained with the blood of Glencoe. Nothing can efface what I have done.” He moved still closer. “Women are marvelous,” he said curiously. “I did not think that you so hated me.” He took her by the shoulder and looked into her shrinking face. “I did not think that you so hated me,” he repeated. “Have I not cause to hate you, Lord Stair?” she demanded hoarsely. “I swore that as you had been false, cruel and merciless, that even as that dear blood cried out to me—you should pay to the last bitterness.” His hand fell from her shoulder. “Why have you come here now?” She moved away blindly through the shadows, her hands clenched tight on her bosom. “Have they all gone, Lord Stair—all?” “Yes—they are lackeys.” “And your wife?” said Delia suddenly. His utter silence answered her; she turned about in a strange and desperate manner. “Is not your wife here?” “Do not push me, mistress,” he answered thickly. “My affairs will bear no meddling.” Delia cried out passionately: “Poor coward—so she could not be loyal to the last—she knew perhaps what I am come to tell you—that to-night the mob are coming here.” “What you came to tell me?” he exclaimed. She crushed her hands together in a helpless manner. “They mean to kill you I think—Johnstone is setting them on—O God in Heaven!” She turned to the mantelpiece and pressed her forehead against the marble slab; her hood had fallen back, and the candle-light flickered over the soft hazel curls. Lord Stair was watching her. “Your three years’ work is accomplished,” he said. “You came to tell me so?” She was silent; her head drooped lower on the mantelshelf.