“And if they did not—” she stopped, then went on bravely. “They are in the heart of the Campbell country—I suppose—I mean, do you think—Breadalbane would—leave any alive?” “Nay, I cannot tell,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is not likely that he would forego this chance against his ancient enemies.” She rose up suddenly and her clasped hands fell apart and clenched at her sides. “Ah!” she cried. Then she caught his eyes on her and gave a faint laugh. “Mr. Caryl,” she began. She could get no further; her voice broke; she put her trembling hand to her mouth and stared down at him. He rose. “Miss Delia,” he said gently, “what is it to you that the Macdonalds should take the oaths?” The direct question threw her off her defenses; she gave him a terrified glance and sank into the chair, turning away her head. “What is it to you?” he repeated softly. Her voice came muffled over her shoulder: “Why, nothing—only—you see—I—” He saw her shoulders heave, and bent over her. She was sobbing; he could see the tears glittering on her cheek; with a great effort she tried for control. “I am tired—and excited, Mr. Caryl—don’t heed me.” He stood still and silent, watching her, his soft mouth curved into a half-sad smile; the light from the flaring candle and his flickering shadow rose and fell over her, now obscuring, now revealing her bent head, and stooping shoulders. “’Tis nothing,” she said, stifling her sobs. “Miss Delia,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is a great deal.” She suddenly broke down beyond concealment. “I think my heart is broken,” she whispered between passionate sobs “I think I am mad—oh,—I am ashamed!—ashamed!” She struggled up, hiding her scarlet, tear-stained face. “Think me mad,” she whispered through her fingers, “and forget—I am ashamed—and most unhappy—” She leaned her forehead against the chimneypiece and sobbed afresh; her yellow skirt trailed in the dead ashes on the hearth, and from head to foot she shuddered. Jerome Caryl was neither discomposed nor confused; he surveyed her agitation with a tender calmness and his strange melancholy smile deepened. “I think we can make the Macdonalds take the oaths, Miss Delia,” he said, “as an old friend you will let me help you—in what I can?” She lifted her head and looked at him with a half-wonder. “What do you mean?” she whispered. His voice sank melodiously low. “I mean I think you would not care, Miss Delia, for the man who has left us to be massacred by the Campbells—you would like to think he and his clan were safe.” Delia went white and clutched at the edge of the mantelpiece; she stared with widened eyes at the beautiful face of the man opposite. “You know,” she said at length, “you are very gallant with my folly, Mr. Caryl.” “My sweet friend,” he answered, “your folly is a lovely thing—this man is honored by your consideration and I by leave to help you—you have a tenderness toward the life you saved; believe me it does you credit.”