“Oh!” she glanced up, bewildered by his manner. “I heard that they were going to burn the house—I did not trust the servants—I went myself to ask the Marquis for a guard—he sent me on to the castle—and there they put such difficulties in the way—and—I was too late.” She leaned back wearily. “They sent some men—they are putting the fire out now—the city was in such an uproar that I could not return sooner—I thought that you might be here so I came. You never got my message?” “No.” She leaned forward. “What is the matter, my lord? I did all I could.” “Yes—ah, yes.” He was looking at her very strangely. “Did you not guess where I had gone?” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips and her lids fluttered in a weary manner. Lord Stair came to the other side of the table. “So, Ulrica, you stay to share my fallen fortunes?” he asked in a low voice. She looked at him calmly. “Did you think anything else of me?” “My thoughts!” he said wildly. “Let my thoughts go—I know not what I thought—” Their eyes met across the table of gold and silver— “Ulrica—what made you stay?” Her eyes widened. “It never crossed my mind to go. Whatever they say—my place is not among your enemies.” A little pause, then he said in a labored way: “Ulrica—I am innocent of what they impute to me—there was no massacre in Glencoe.” “I thought so,” she answered quietly. “My lord, I thought so.” Her hood had slipped back from her smooth hair and her sweet face was pure and pale in the rich light. “Have you saved anything?” she asked. Lord Stair pointed to the kitten at his feet with a half-smile. “That,” he said, “and this—” He drew Cooper’s drawing from his pocket and laid it by the crystal warrior. Lady Stair’s eyes fell to it, then lifted to his face; a color came into her cheeks and she rose trembling. As she turned she caught sight of Delia and cried out in a frightened way with blanched cheeks. “Hush!” said Lord Stair; he was beside her looking at the dead woman. “She has fixed on me the blood of Glencoe—and she has paid—hush!” Lady Stair shrank away, still with terror in her eyes. “Who was she?” came her whisper. “Do you want to know? Does it matter now?” “No! no!” She shuddered against the table, gazing at Delia’s terrible calm against the background of the strange room. Lord Stair looked at the burning sunrise and held out his right hand; the glowing light fell on it, a crimson stain. “You see—the blood of Glencoe!” He laughed magnificently and turned to his wife; his face was wild in expression, his eyes wide open. “And you, of all of them, have been faithful!” She took her gaze from the dead woman, put out her hand and clasped his, so that the red was over her wrist, too. “You of all!” he repeated, and his voice was unsteady. He drew her up to the table edge, close to him, her grasp of his hand tightened; her breath came fast. “John! John!”