“Why not?” she answered. “You are well enough.” Her manner was unnaturally cold, but he took no heed of her; she waited for her answer in vain. “Why not?” she repeated at length. “We only kept you here during your sickness, Macdonald.” Something in her tone seemed to ask for gratitude, the expression of some thankfulness for his life saved, but the inflection was too delicate for him to notice it. “I will take your message,” he repeated. “Only you must not ask us to take the oaths to a Campbell.” “Not to a Campbell,” she said. “To the Prince’s Government—but will you come and see my brother?” Instinctive fear and dislike of the Southern struggled with the Macdonald’s desire for freedom; he reflected a while, then gave a grave consent. Delia, watching him, was quick to see that his impulse was to leave without a word, stride off with no backward look at the hated town. With her head held very stately high she preceded him down the stairs and flung open the parlor door. The two men turned at her entrance. She made a little gesture toward Macdonald, and spoke in English. “My Highlander—and he is so eager to leave us, Perseus, he would do anything—he will take your message.” Crossing to the fire, she seated herself, leaving Macdonald in the doorway. He eyed the two Saxons with frank interest; his glance rested long on the beautiful face of Jerome Caryl. “I am to translate, Perseus,” said Delia. “What do you want to say?” Jerome looked at the huge Highlander with approval. “Ask him to sit down,” he said. “He looks honest.” Delia obeyed with an air almost of disdain; Jerome, glancing at her, wondered what had damped her eager spirits; she was very grave and pale; her eyes were fixed with a curious expression on Macdonald; her mouth had a little lift of scorn. She sat so, very still, translating her brother’s questions and explanations into Gaelic, and Jerome Caryl watched her. Macdonald listened with gravity and attention, appeared to understand what was asked of him and received into his keeping the letters to the Highland chiefs with a solemn promise to deliver them. Sir Perseus gave him a rough map of his route from Glasgow to Glencoe, a pistol and a few crowns. These last he respected as useless; he was doubtful, too, of the pistol, but finally stuck it in his belt. Jerome Caryl offered to see him on his way beyond the town gates. Macdonald declined, gazing from his high window he had marked the gates and could well find them. With cordialities on the part of Sir Perseus, and shy reserve from the Highlander, they took leave of each other. “I will light you,” said Delia. She rose and took up a candle and led the way down-stairs; Ronald Macdonald, light-footed as a cat, followed. In the narrow little hall she turned and faced him; in the circle of the candle-light her brown hair glittered with threads of gold and the yellow satin of her gown rippled into reflections and shadows.