Delia had been alone all day, her brother and Jerome Caryl had been summoned to a meeting with Berwick, who was in hiding in Southwark; she knew they would return to meet the messenger from France, Mr. Wedderburn, who was due this evening, but the hour she could not tell. The room was large and low with plain plaster walls and uncarpeted floor; on the high chimneypiece two huge white china dogs grinned at each other either side a wooden clock; the fireplace was laid with rough brown Dutch tiles that bore the history of the fall of man in rude bold figures; Delia sat in one of the well-worn chairs, and stared absently at the round fat face of Eve who looked up distressfully from the hearth, glowing red from the fire. The room was full of the sound of bells, the bells of St. Margaret’s and the Abbey chiming together steadily. The girl listened to them dreamily, and her thoughts were in Scotland, the desolate Glencoe—the Glen o’ Weeping—were they safe, those Macdonalds?—very far-away they seemed, helpless, too, and pitiful for all their fierceness; she prayed they might have taken the oaths; she did not care to think of Ronald Macdonald as among the dead. With a little sigh she leaned forward; she wore a long dress of dark gray silk and in the heavy curls of her hazel hair was a band of velvet of a bright pure blue; in the plain collar of her gown shone a little turquoise brooch. Her eyes, dark brown and brooding, looked soft as pansies under her smooth white brow, and her mouth strong and gentle was very sweetly set; it was a fair musing face she rested on her hand; a face calmly troubled. Through the bells came the sound of footsteps; she thought it might be her brother or Caryl, but the step was too light for either. She rose slowly, her eyes on the door. It opened and a man stepped in. “Miss Delia?” he asked softly, “the sister of Sir Perseus?” “Yes.” He closed the door. “They sent me here to wait the coming of Mr. Caryl,” he said. “I am Andrew Wedderburn—from France.” He came into the room, his hat in his hand; Delia looked at him in silence, she stood with her hand on the arm of her chair, the firelight full on her face. “May I wait here?” asked Mr. Wedderburn. “I have satisfied the host of my identity—but you—will you see my papers?” “Sir—we do not question friends,” she said. “How should you be here if you were not the King’s messenger?” His blue eyes dwelt on her a second with a curious look; he laid his hat on a chair. “Help me with my coat,” he said quietly. “Will you not—the room is warm?” She came slowly toward him with a half-hesitation.