“And my Highlander shall take the warning,” she cried. “He shall carry home this news.” Jerome looked up interested: “A Macdonald, did you say?” “Ronald Macdonald,” she answered, “and son of the chief of his clan.” “He may be trusted,” said Sir Perseus, “for his very simplicity. He could take letters to Lochiel, Glengarry, Keppoch—I know not about his gratitude. He is, I think, faithful.” “I will answer for him,” said Delia. “Indeed, I can assure you of his great honesty.” Jerome Caryl smiled. “Why—you seem to know him very well, Miss Delia.” She answered his look with a straight glance. “I have talked to him—he has told me things of himself and his people.” “They come from Glencoe?” “Yes,” she answered. “In our tongue, you know, it is the Glen of Weeping—they call it so because of the mists that hang there day and night—’tis an awful place in the heart of the Campbell country.” “And they are murdering thieves, are they not?” questioned Jerome. Delia lifted her strong face, flushed rosy from the fire: “I think these Highlanders have other standards than ours,” she said quietly. “They own stronger virtues and franker vices.” “The same,” returned Jerome, “may be said of all savages, Miss Delia.” Sir Perseus interposed: “But I think the fellow is to be trusted, and who but a born Highlander could traverse this chaotic country with safety and advantage?” Jerome Caryl shrugged his shoulders and stirred the log on the hearth with the toe of his boot. “Well, let the matter rest. Only the thing must be done if we are to defeat Breadalbane and the Master of Stair.” Sir Perseus laughed: “Why, I believe you dislike the Secretary as much as the Edinburgh mob do.” “I hate his power,” answered Jerome. “The way he rules us all against our will—he and he only prevents Scotland returning to King James—” “They do say he is accursed of a cursed family,” said Delia. “There are horrid mysteries whispered of him—you have heard?” “Yes, and I do not think them all vulgar spite—they are a dark race, these Dalrymples,” answered Jerome. There was a pause, then Delia spoke: “Have you ever seen him?” she asked. “Once—in Edinburgh—he was riding an ash-colored horse; there was a great train of rabble at his heels, who hooted and pelted him—I did not see his face; he had his hat over his eyes and never looked back.” “He is used to being mobbed,” said Sir Perseus; “they say that is why he left Edinburgh.” “I was of the mob,” said Jerome Caryl fiercely, “and I said with the mob what I say now: damnation to the Master of Stair!” CHAPTER V THE FOLLY OF DELIA