“We’re safe with either government,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard of this rising—Jock will of course wait. There is nae hurry.” “No,” assented Argyll, eager to reassure himself of the safety of his position. “And I dinna doubt that everybody has a finger in the plot. They say ye can count on one hand the men at Kensington who hav’na’ regular letters from St. Germains.” “And who are those few, cousin?” “Weel—they say Carstairs, Shrewsbury and the Master of Stair—but I’m thinking that’s merely because they are more cunning than most.” The Countess laughed. At the same moment there was a tap on the door and as she looked up a servant entered. “Captain Campbell of Glenlyon to see your ladyship.” “He is frae Kilchurn?” she asked. “Yes, my lady.” “Bid him come in,” she said, and as the door closed again she looked at her cousin. “What has happened that Jock sends to me?” Argyll trifled with his teaspoon in silence and looked at her with a lazy half-sneer, for she had risen with a changed face, and that any one should be troubled lest anything should happen to Breadalbane was to his cousin a most amusing thing. Captain Campbell of Glenlyon entered and stood a moment abashed by the light, glowing room, the elegant lady all purple and gold; his master usually employed him on rougher work than carrying messages to his wife. “My lord is weel?” asked the Countess swiftly. “Vera weel, my lady,” answered Glenlyon awkwardly. The sneer on Argyll’s face deepened. “Will ye be closing the door after ye?” he asked sourly. “I’m in a fearful draught.” With nervous salutations, Glenlyon obeyed; he was a red-haired, florid man, obviously ill at ease in the presence of Argyll and the Countess. There was a little pause: the Earl, fretful at having his tea disturbed, pointedly ignored Glenlyon, who, after delivering his letter, stood uncomfortably by the door. Erect and slender in the center of the room stood the Countess, the soft light glittering on the stiff folds of her silk gown. She broke the seal of the letter and with eager eyes glanced over it, her fair face anxious and absorbed. She had her back to Argyll, and he marked with a slow cold admiration the curve of her neck rising from the webs and blossoms of her d’Alençon lace kerchief and the long, fine, gleaming gold curls that fell over her shoulders; drooping against the soft turn of her cheek hung the brilliant in her ear: it winked with a thousand colors in the candle-light and trembled a little with the quick moving of her breath. There was a silence in the cream-colored room. Glenlyon began to note the things about him with furtive red eyes, and cautiously shifted his feet from the edge of the pink carpet onto the polished boards. Suddenly, the Countess looked up and turned to Argyll. “Cousin,” she cried, “the clans are coming in!” The paper shook in her hand and her eyes flashed under lifted brows.