“But times change,” smiled Breadalbane, “he’d no’ be so powerful if there was a revolution.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a packet of the Master of Stair’s letters; written mostly from Kensington and in a powerful, picturesque style, flowing and eloquent. They set forth a scheme evidently very passionately dear to the writer’s heart, namely, the utter destruction of that “damnable den of thieves,” the Highlanders. Breadalbane took up the last and read it over again; it contained these words: “Your troops will destroy entirely the country of Lochaber, Lochiel’s lands, Keppoch’s, Glengarry’s and Glencoe’s. Your power shall be large enough. I hope the soldiers will not trouble the government with prisoners.” The Earl folded and put the letters away. “You are very confident, Sir John,” he reflected, “that the clans will no’ be coming in.” It was now the third of December and none had taken the oaths; there seemed fair ground for the Master of Stair’s eager hope that none would; who was to warn the remote Highlands of the secret vengeance preparing against them; of the soldiers sent quietly in readiness for the first day of the new year, of the Master of Stair, Secretary and Prime Minister for Scotland, waiting for that day with the terrible calmness of a black resolve? The Highlanders saw none of this; only the suave smile of the loathed Campbell who was the government’s instrument, and a demand for the avowal of submission their haughtiness would not stoop to grant. Breadalbane put down his pen and pushed his chair back. If the chiefs were not warned.... His light eyes glistened unpleasantly—certainly he had at least the Macdonalds in his hand. He was returning to his letter with a smile on his thin lips when the door was suddenly opened and he swung round with his swift silent movement. It was Campbell of Ardkinglass. “Weel?” demanded the Earl, and his tone was haughty: his common usage. Ardkinglass gave him a strange glance. “Macdonald o’ Glencoe is below,” he said dryly. “The chief and his twa sons asking for ye.” Breadalbane rose stiffly: “Macdonald o’ Glencoe—under my roof?” he said with narrowing eyes. Ardkinglass nodded. “They will be wishing to take the oaths,” he answered. “They’ve come to attend the conference.” The Earl, always mindful of his dignity before his henchmen, stifled a fierce oath. “I’m no’ a sheriff,” he said. “Let them begone from my roof—see to it Ardkinglass—tell them I willna’ treat with thieves.” “They willna’ gang,” replied Campbell of Ardkinglass, “they’ve come, they say, for their share of the bonnie English siller.” The Earl’s control broke at that; he cried out passionately: “The auld leeing thief! He would be asking me for the siller when he owes me more for rent and robbery than his share twice ower!” “I think they will be coming to see ye in your public capacity,” was the answer. “They’re no’ taking heed of private feuds.”