From the corners of the room the shadows lifted; on all the old gold and gems a faint white light; on all the wonders of precious workmanship and on that most wonderful thing of all, the woman lying along the settle with the veil of her hair falling to the floor and her head thrown back on the bronze and purple Persian cushion which bore a sprawling dragon with emerald eyes. Her curved mouth was parted as if that last breathing of his name had drawn her soul with it and left her lips cleft; there was no line in her smooth face, beneath the soft lashes were delicate shadows and across the sweep of her throat lay a strand of hair and its double in shade. She was the hue of a white rose against the vivid tints of her cushions; her face was as unfathomable as her silence. The fire had dropped into ashes; the dawn strengthening showed dust on everything; dust on the tarnished silver, on the sails of the gold ship, on the empty armor. There were cobwebs, high up among the shelves that showed now; cobwebs clinging to and obscuring the splendor of the gold and silver. The black cat leaped from the table, ran round the room, then began playing amid the ashes and the ends of Delia’s hair. Lord Stair crossed to the head of the settle and stood looking at the dawn behind the diamond panes. The curse of the Dalrymples was fulfilled now; surely, to the last bitterness, completed. He glanced down at Delia—what had she said?—“for the ways of the Lord are wonderful”—Wonderful! he laughed to himself—she had loved him, had ruined him, and had died because she could not face what she had done. Was she a fool or a heroine?—he could look at her coldly now and wonder, though she had moved him once. The sun rose slowly, majestic into the clear sky; red-gold rays struck into the room and caused the candle-light to look faint and sickly; the armor, swords and pistols, shone as if on fire; Lord Stair put his hand before his eyes and leaned heavily against the carved post of the settle. The deathly stillness was broken by the soft opening of the door, the soft closing of it, and a gentle step into the room. Lord Stair looked round. Standing against the armor, in the strange faint lights and shades was a woman in a light dress with the red glow of the dawn in her blonde hair and over her pale face; Lady Stair, looking at him intently, eagerly, with questioning blue eyes. “Ulrica!” he could utter no word but her name; the blood rushed into his face as he stared at her, incredulous, amazed. “I was too late,” she said faintly; she sat down at his seat at the table; there were lines of weariness under her eyes, and her dress was tumbled. “My woman told you?” her hands holding a riding-whip, fell between the crystal warrior and the nymph on her gold vase. Lord Stair came in front of Delia, hiding her from sight. “I have heard nothing,” he said hoarsely. “When I returned the house was empty save for one man—”