“Are you not all I have, Perseus?” she said unsteadily. “Is it so long ago since father was slain by the Boyne and we vowed to serve the King he died for? Oh, my dear, why should you think I want to turn aside into placid safety?” “Delia!” Sir Perseus held out his hand, “’tis only that sometimes I think you do not see the danger—” “Why, I do love it,” she interrupted gaily. “The excitement is life to me—and you forget—are there so few faithful in England? We are only two of thousands who plot, and wait and long for the rightful King again!” With a little laugh she came behind him and put her hand on his shoulder, while she gazed over his head into the fire. “Yea, we will do it,” said Sir Perseus quietly. “We will oust the Dutchman, I think, Delia—there is a huge discontent everywhere.” He tapped the papers he had been writing, “there—in my reports to his Majesty, I have to mention many great men who would welcome him back—” he smiled grimly. “Many of them, those who welcomed William—” “If his Majesty would but himself come over,” sighed Delia. “I think all England would rise to greet him!” “Indeed,” answered her brother, “William has no friend in England—I marvel he holds the throne—at all—” “’Twill not be for long,” cried Delia, with glittering eyes—“But—hark!” A knock resounded through the empty house; Sir Perseus rose. “’Tis Jerome Caryl,” he said. His sister gave a little pant of suppressed excitement; the bold and restless spirit of Jerome Caryl was akin to her own; he was the soul of this plot in which she was engaged; of her own religion, her own views; a man whom next to her brother she admired of all others. And for six months she had not seen him; the while he plotted in London, they plotted in Scotland; he might have great news to tell; she was confident his fervor and ability could remove obstacles that to the slower mind of her brother seemed insurmountable. Her fingers shaking, she lit the candles on the chimneypiece; as the pointed flames sprang up they showed the face of Delia; a strong face with great brown eyes and a passionate mouth; a low-browed fair face, very eager and bright with the thick hazel hair falling round the full, curved white throat and lace collar. She caught up one of the candles and ran out on to the head of the stairs. A man was coming up; she could hear the jingle of his spurs and the drag of his sword. “Mr. Caryl!” she cried, leaning over the baluster. He came now into the circle of the candle-light, a tall figure in steel and leather, with a long, dark traveling cloak over his shoulder. “Himself, madam,” he answered, and looked up with a smile. She came running down the stairs to meet him and gave him her hand between laughing and crying. “Oh, sir, Mr. Caryl—you have some news?” she panted. He kissed her hand ceremoniously. “News of a kind, yes,” he answered—“and you?” “Oh, things go well in Scotland!” she cried, “but—enter—sir—”