She caught at the chair with cold fingers. “I have made my affections stronger than my love—I have put honor and loyalty above my heart—and I came to-night because my soul turned weak as water to think of your death.” She paused; her breathing came with difficulty. “Will you not go, Lord Stair?” He had gone toward the window; a vast crowd were gathering without, the red light of torches flickered across the courtyard, and threw into view faces here and there in the sea of people. The door was suddenly burst open and the solitary servant rushed in. “My lord, my lord! they are certainly going to destroy us! They have gunpowder with them.” “Save yourself,” interrupted Lord Stair,—he took a purse from his pocket and tossed it across the room. The man groped for it in the shadows. “There is Lumley’s, the jewelers in the Cannon Gate my lord—he is under great obligations to your lordship—if you would take shelter there.” “You are a good fellow,” said the Earl. “Go to Lumley—I may follow—the horses are in safety?” “My lord, yes.” The man hesitated at the door. “Your lordship will not try to save some of the things—papers—or plate—?” Lord Stair laughed, a fierce sound through the darkness: “No—nothing. What value is any of this to me compared to what I have already lost? Get you gone.” The servant withdrew and the Earl turned swiftly to Delia. “And you mistress, go and join your people without—do you not hear them shouting? Go and add your voice to those cursing the Dalrymples—and be content—for to-night all curses are fulfilled.” She moved slowly nearer to him. “And what is your thought of me, Lord Stair?” He made an imperious gesture as if he would have swept her intruding presence aside. “I have no thought at all for you.” He stopped, listening; from the confusion of sounds without arose the crackling of flames; he went to the window; fagots and gunpowder had been piled in the court and flaming tarred torches flung into the midst; red lights began to dance in reflections over the floor; and smoke swept in faint clouds past the windows. Lord Stair felt a cold hand touch his and turned to look into the face of Delia. “For God’s sake,” she whispered, “for pity’s sake.” He made an impatient attempt to shake her off, but she clung to his hand desperately in a frenzy of entreaty. “It is burning—don’t you see that it is burning—make haste—at the back through the garden.” The triumphant shout of the crowd as they saw the flames rise almost drowned her voice; an unnatural red glare blinding, horrible, filled the room from end to end. Lord Stair glanced round. “Your work, mistress, your work,” he wrenched himself free of her. “Go without there yonder and laugh at it.” She was crying and sobbing like a mad woman. “What have I done—I have been crazy—crazy—”