“Yes—ye ken he is no’ a puppet King and has a fearfu’ habit o’ looking into his affairs himself—I’m no sure of his gude-will to our scheme.” She lifted her delicate shoulders scornfully. “The Master o’ Stair will manage him—he is deep in his confidence.” “Weel.” Argyll looked at her doubtfully, “I have written to the Master o’ Stair that I dinna do anything without the King’s name as authority. I will na put my neck in jeopardy.” “The King’s name!” She lifted her head with a superb contempt. “Who is king in the Hielands? Ye are MacCallum More—will ye defer to a foreigner who canna speak your tongue—who hasna’ seen your country? By Heaven, I think the Campbells can rule in the Hielands without a Dutchman’s warrant!” “Breadalbane is no’ o’ that mind,” sneered Argyll. “He took the oaths fast enow.” “But he dinna consult William o’ Orange every time he wishes to hang a Macdonald,” retorted the Countess. But Argyll was obstinate. “I willna’ put my neck in jeopardy,” he repeated. “Show me the King’s name and I’m content—but I’ll no’ move without it.” The Countess Peggy’s thin lips compressed scornfully. “Vera weel,” she said. “The Master o’ Stair will get the King’s authority, cousin.” “You’re ower fond o’ quoting the Master o’ Stair,” said Argyll sourly; the news of the clans coming in had frightened his irresolute mind; he was ready to wash his hands of the whole affair. “The Master o’ Stair!” repeated the Countess. “Cousin, he is the most powerfu’ man in the Lowlands, ye ken, and great in London—he is o’ our views—cousin, I do weel to quote the Master o’ Stair!” CHAPTER IX ON THE ROAD TO LONDON It was drawing toward the evening of December twentieth, along the smooth high road to Carlisle three travelers were riding swiftly, their faces toward England. The wind blew cold and keen; the trees bordering the roadside began to show dark and misshapen in the twilight; the walls of Carlisle ahead of them were a welcome sight. Delia Featherstonehaugh, riding between her brother and Jerome Caryl, shuddering drew her hood closer round her face, and whipped her horse up to keep pace with her companions. Through the dusk came Jerome Caryl’s low musical voice; he was telling her the reason of this hasty departure for London; she had been loth to leave Scotland though, with the submission of the greater number of the Highland chiefs their work in the North had been accomplished. “My Lord Berwick,” Jerome was saying, “is come to England and lives now in a smuggler’s hut on Romney Marsh—we have to see him about the rising in the spring. Then I have to sound the ministers and nobles and get what names I can to a letter promising help to King James—for you see, Miss Delia, the French do not desire to send aid if none will join them—then I have to meet an agent of His Majesty’s—who comes with news from France—one, Andrew Wedderburn.” Delia made no answer, but her brother spoke.