The other side of the hearth stood Jerome Caryl, his melancholy hazel eyes fixed on her. “Mr. Caryl!” she cried and flushed scarlet. His small mouth curved into a smile. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I startled you—” She recovered herself with a half-laugh. “I thought you were gone with Perseus—or abed,” she said, “and I—I have let the fire out.” She spoke hurriedly and the color receding from her face, left her very white. Jerome seated himself. “Miss Delia,” he said, “this is a miserable life for you.” “Oh, no,” she answered. “No.” “Yes,” he insisted gently. “For a woman and a lady, a miserable life; you are very heroic, Miss Delia, to give up so much for King James.” “You forget, Mr. Caryl, that I have no alternative.” She smiled frankly at him. “And I am a born plotter,” she added, “and sanguine—so content, Mr. Caryl.” A silence fell between them; she turned her head away and fell to twisting her fingers together in her lap; he could see her profile in pure strong lines against the background of shadows, the curve of her throat into the lace collar and the loosened knot of dull brown curls in her neck; he studied her with gentle melancholy eyes and his mouth drooped with lines of musing. Presently the girl spoke, shaking off the spell of the silence with an effort. “Mr. Caryl—do you think the Highlands will take the oath?” “I hope so—most fervently,” he answered. “Indeed, I think so—” “All of them?” she asked, and her voice faltered a little. Jerome Caryl considered. “Some might hate the Campbells more than they feared the government,” he said, “but it would, Miss Delia, hardly matter—they would pay the price—they could not involve the others.” “Pay the price,” she repeated. “What would that be?—what would the government do to those who did not take the oaths?” She turned full toward him with grave, intent eyes. “’Tis not a question of the government,” answered Caryl. “But of Breadalbane and the Master of Stair—they are waiting very eagerly, Miss Delia, for the first of January to pass, and they are preparing a great vengeance against those who shall then be outside the law.” “They would be pitiless, you think?” she questioned breathlessly. “Yes,” said Jerome Caryl. She moved impetuously in her chair. “Why?” she asked, “I can understand Breadalbane—but why the Master of Stair? What has he against the Highlands?” “The contempt of the statesman for the savage,” Caryl answered with a half-smile. “The intolerant arrogance of the powerful against those who oppose him, and the haughty resolution of an imperious soul, Miss Delia.” “I loathe his make,” she cried. “Hard and cruel—I have heard horrid tales of him—and how he is accursed—he is a fitting servant of William of Orange!” The color had come into her face; she set her lips resolutely and flung up her head. “Do you think that the Macdonalds of Glencoe will take the oaths?” she asked abruptly. “I cannot tell,” he answered gravely.