“God knows,” said Sir Perseus. “I think his strongest motive is not money—but hate.” Delia broke in eagerly: “You cannot guess how the Highlanders hate the Campbells, Mr. Caryl—this Macdonald goes white to think of them—” Jerome Caryl lifted his head; his beautiful face was set and hard. “Yes,” he said quietly. “The Highlands hate Breadalbane—the Lowlands hate the Master of Stair; the English hate William of Orange—in each case ’tis thousands to one—” Delia cried joyously: “Surely that means all hearts turn to the true King—no government can surely live on hate!” “Indeed,” put in her brother, “I do think this seething discontent looks well for us—what do you say, Jerome?—the odds are against the Dutchman.” Jerome looked from one to the other, then gave a bitter little laugh. “No!” he cried, “the odds are most mightily against King James—and even with the three kingdoms behind us we could do nothing against these men—nothing!” He struck his hand vehemently on his sword-hilt. “I have seen it—as I intrigued and waited and watched in London—while half the men of note would go over again to King James and the other half follow if he was here—while the people grumble and curse the Dutchman—while promises of anything may be had for the asking, still three men hold us in check—three men whom every one joins in loathing—but, by Heaven, they hold the three countries with a power we cannot shake!” He stopped, flushed with the force of his words; Delia looked at him with surprised, indignant eyes; her brother spoke. “What are these, Jerome?” “William Carstairs, one; the Master of Stair, two, and three, William of Orange.” There was a little pause, then Delia made an impatient movement with her foot. “Three men, Mr. Caryl!” she cried with flashing eyes. “Have we not many threes to match them?” “Miss Delia,” said Jerome Caryl, “you remember what the Irish said after the Boyne?—‘Change kings and we will fight it again’—I feel like that now.” “Oh, shame!” cried Delia. “You seem turned rank Williamite,” remarked Sir Perseus, a little sourly. “I am not,” was the firm answer, “but I see what a rope of sand we are without a leader: I see that we have to struggle against a man whose genius has made him arbitrator of Europe—and he has linked himself with William Carstairs—” “A Scotch minister of no birth!” interrupted Delia. “One of the cleverest men in the kingdom,” said Jerome, “and the Master of Stair is another—if you consider the Highlands, you may add Breadalbane for a fourth—call them devils, if you will, but they are men impossible to defeat.” Sir Perseus rose impatiently: “I think you are wrong, Jerome—why, Sir John Dalrymple, the Master of Stair, as you call him, hath roused such a storm against himself that he hardly dares to show himself in Edinburgh—any moment he might be arrested by the Parliament.”