“Who is that fellow, Jerome? We are getting too many into this plot.” “I have letters from my Lord Middleton assuring me of his perfect loyalty,” answered Jerome. “He hath risked his life before on the King’s service.” “A Scot?” asked Sir Perseus. “Yes—by the name,” smiled Jerome. “’Tis not he that troubles me, but this getting of signatures. Men are wary of signing papers, and lip promises are of no service.” They rode in silence a while; it began to snow and the light rapidly faded. “’Tis a severe winter,” said Delia. “I would we were in Carlisle.” She looked wistfully ahead, toward the city lost now in the gathering dusk. Jerome Caryl, following out his thoughts, spoke again. “I have Hamilton and Athol—I nearly had Argyll—but he is too fearful—Breadalbane is too cunning to commit himself—of course there are Montgomery and Crauford—and in England I am sure of Marlborough, Cornbury, Rochester and Godolphin—but I need others—there are the common names whose weight is little—whose honor is cheapened with much false swearing.” Delia responded to the disdain in his even voice: “That there should be so many traitors!” she cried impulsively. “Sometimes I loathe them all.” From the dark figure at her side came her brother’s practical voice. “If you could get Devonshire, Halifax and Dorset, Jerome,” he said, “it were enough. Shrewsbury, too....” “Ah!” said Jerome softly. “Be careful—even on the open road.” Again they pressed on in silence; the snow fell thickly, their hands were numb upon the bridles, and Delia felt her limbs ache with cold. “We shall not reach Carlisle to-night,” said Jerome suddenly. “You see those lights ahead, Perseus? ’tis an inn—I remember it; a rough place, but we will stop there.” Though Caryl was the younger, Perseus never questioned his right to command; his cold smiling way carried an authority not easy to dispute. In a few moments more they had drawn up at the inn, a low two-storeyed house; before it a heavy sign outlined now in snow, on it in straggling letters the legend: “The Borderers.” A flickering lamp over the door gave a gusty light. As Jerome dismounted he saw a huge coach drawn up against the side of the house. “Ye have guests?” he demanded of the ostler who came forward. The man nodded. “A lord and his family.” Jerome hesitated, but to turn away now would look suspicious, and the night was impossible. He helped Delia down from the saddle and the three entered the low door. A silent, depressed looking, slatternly woman showed them into a large room that was at once both kitchen and parlor. It was lit only by a huge fire that roared up the vast chimney; the floor was tiled in red, the walls, plaster; heavy red curtains before the windows shut out the night; kitchen utensils, mostly of brown earthenware, hung against the walls and were placed about the hearth; a three-legged cauldron was in the fire and a heavy smell of cooking onions rose from it.