He followed her into the room, and while the two men exchanged greetings she eagerly scanned the countenance of the new-comer. Jerome Caryl had the figure as well as the dress of a soldier; a quiet, easy air, a soft voice and the face of a woman saint; a face that seen alone none would have ever taken for that of a man, so perfect was the contour of the small, regular features, the sweet mouth, the straight nose, the dimpled chin, the large, soft, melancholy hazel eyes, the brilliant, smooth complexion. Beside the rough blunt appearance of Sir Perseus, his face, pale with fatigue, looked like that of a musing girl; far more soft and sweet than the firm features of Delia Featherstonehaugh, all aglow with excitement. “How go things in London?” asked Sir Perseus. “We have had few letters.” “It was not deemed safe to write,” answered Jerome Caryl in his low melodious voice. “Pray, Mistress Delia—sit and hearken—I have dined—I am in want of nothing save the ear of my friends—yet—have you nothing to tell?” Delia was stirring the fire into a blaze; she looked round with an eager smile. “Perseus hath been much engaged,” she said. “There is great discontent here—and the Highlands have not taken the oaths to the government—” Perseus glanced affectionately at his sister. “Is she not a valiant plotter, Jerome?” he said. “Her spirits are enough to fire a losing cause—but have we told you—we have here in this house a Highlander—a Macdonald of Glencoe?” He laughed, but Jerome Caryl looked up puzzled. “Was it well to trust one of those savages?” he asked. Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders. “He knows naught of us—I found him some weeks ago half-dead upon the mountains; he had dragged himself, God knows how far, on a broken ankle, then fallen in a swoon. I could not leave him in that desolation—the horse I rode was stout: I brought him here.” A smile came on the smooth face of Jerome Caryl. “Like you,” he said, “and Miss Delia nursed him, I suppose?” She answered quickly, not looking at him: “He is almost mended now—and wild to return—he is not, I think, very grateful.” “Gaelic is one of Delia’s accomplishments,” said Sir Perseus; “I do not understand a word the fellow says.” The subject did not appear to interest Jerome Caryl; he had weightier matters on his mind. “What was you doing in the Highlands?” he asked Perseus. “Why, I was gathering what information I could as to the submission of the clans—January first is the last day, you know, and not so far away.” Jerome tapped his foot thoughtfully. “Breadalbane held a conference at Kilchurn, I heard,” he remarked. “But it has come to nothing.” “Of course,” said Sir Perseus dryly. “The government had the folly to send a Campbell—and the most hated of all the Campbells to treat.” “It was thought,” answered Jerome, “that it would be to his interest to quiet the Highlands, but he has, I think, found it more to his interest to keep the money he was to buy them with.”