“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he said—“maybe the laddie will live.” He glanced at his wife. “Ronald, the son of Makian,” he repeated. “Weel, a Campbell always has a vera gude memory.” CHAPTER IV DELIA FEATHERSTONEHAUGH In a small chamber of a quiet house in Glasgow, a girl was standing at the window and looking down the empty street. The November evening was closing in; the room somber and gloomy at any time, was in darkness save for the fire over which a young man sat, writing on a paper that he held on his knee. The firelight showed a resolute brown face, close-clipped brown hair and a large figure very plainly clad in a neat, dark cloth suit. The scanty furniture consisted of a bureau, a few chairs, and a small table piled with papers. “He is late, Perseus,” said the girl in a tired voice. “It struck four some time since.” Both her accent and her face marked her as English; when the man glanced up it was easy to see he was her brother. “He will come,” he said quietly. “Why not?” And he fell to his busy writing again. “Why not?” echoed the girl impatiently. “I think, Perseus, there are many reasons why a gentleman in King James’s service may not cross England and Scotland in perfect safety.” “I have perfect confidence in Jerome Caryl,” answered her brother, this time without an upward look. “A man who has been an adventurer all his life knows how to play the spy.” She let the curtain fall. “I wish you would not use that word, Perseus,” she said vexedly. With a half-humorous sigh Sir Perseus Featherstonehaugh put aside the writing he could no longer see. “My sweet Delia,” he said. “We—Jerome, you, and I and all our friends represent a losing or a lost cause—” “A rightful one,” she put in. “Certainly,” he smiled, “but unfortunately at the present, a lost one—we are, my dear, without the law—in plain English, Jacobite spies dabbling in high treason—I want you to understand that, Delia.” His voice fell to gravity on the last words, but the girl bit her lip and tapped her foot impatiently. “While we have King James’s countenance we can never be spies—or guilty of treason in outwitting his enemies,” she said impetuously. “Nay,” answered Sir Perseus, “but we may be hanged, my dear.” Delia Featherstonehaugh flung up her head: “And we may give the King again his kingdom,” she smiled. “God grant it,” answered her brother gently, “but before we go any further—before we hear Jerome’s news, before we make any more plans—I want you to see it as it is—Delia, we are staking our lives in the King’s service.” “But you would not turn back!” she cried. “Why, no,” he answered. “But you are not bound to follow my fortunes.” Delia swept into the center of the room, her heavy satin dress rustling; a noble dim figure in the dusk.