“You came to tell me so,” he demanded. “You came to triumph, Mistress Featherstonehaugh?” He smiled faintly as he looked at her; she started at the name he used. “I am Captain Campbell’s wife,” she said. “Glenlyon’s wife these two years.” There was an almost imperceptible pause before he answered. “That accounts for another false witness, Mistress Campbell.” “Yes,” she whispered, “yes.” “He has lied to please you?” “What else?” “You married Glenlyon that you might bend him to serve you now?” This time she lifted her head and looked at him with wild eyes. “Yes.” “You have not stopped at anything to attain this end,” said Lord Stair. “Madam, you should be more triumphant now that it is gained.” She advanced a step toward him. “Yea, I am clear of my vow,” she said in a distracted manner. “I think they lie quiet in their graves—I have done it—the blood of Glencoe—it is on you—always.” She sank into a chair, leaning forward over the arm staring across the dusk as if she saw something menacing her. Lord Stair picked up the candle and flashed it before her face. “Why have you come here?” She looked at him behind the candle flame, and for the first time saw his face clearly; their glance met. “Oh, you are changed!” she said in a terrified tone. “And you also,” he answered somberly. With a wild little laugh she bent nearer into the circle of light. “I have dreamt we might meet like this—through the dark—both so different.” Her words trailed off, she put out her hands. “Take away the light—I cannot look at you.” She slipped from the chair to her knees. “What have I done—what have I done!” “Why, you should know—you have done what you set out to do.” In a tone of numb despair she repeated: “What have I done—what have I done?” Lord Stair set the candle on the table. “You had better go, Mistress Campbell—and join your allies who come to burn my house.” “I came because of that,” she answered wildly. “I came to warn you—my courage failed—I could not let it happen.” On her knees, with her hands clasped on her bosom and her head bent, she leaned against the chair, heavily. Lord Stair turned to her with a swift fierceness. “This is a woman’s paltriness,” he cried. “To do the thing and lament it—I had liked you better if you had led the mob you have incited instead of this—” “I would not have them kill you,” she murmured. “Oh, get up from your knees,” he said, scornful. “You are true neither to your love nor to your hate! Get back to your kind and carry through what you have begun.” There was a confused distant sound without. “They are coming!” shrieked Delia. “Well, you knew it,” he smiled: “Go you and join them.” She rose to her feet; the noises, the shouts and the steady tramping were coming nearer. “And I have done this,” whispered Delia. “What did you mean—true to neither love nor hate?” “Look into your heart,” he answered. “Was it love that made you pull me down—was it hate that sent you here to-night?”