“No,” said the Master of Stair, “no. It shall be fire and sword through Glencoe. I will not have one left alive. I am glad it is winter; now is the time to maul the wretches. Those who fly into the hills will this weather perish.” Then fell a little silence, broken by Argyll. “The world will call this a massacre, Sir John.” “Maybe, my lord,” answered the Master of Stair. “Do ye repent, cousin?” flashed Breadalbane. “No,” answered Argyll uneasily. “These Macdonalds have been a plague-spot in our ands for lang enow—but—” “We have done with ‘buts’!” cried Sir John. “I am resolved these thieves shall go and they go. The government is strong enough to bear the blame—and you shall have the King’s warrant, my Lord Argyll.” He rose and touched the bell. “I will show you the plan I have made of Glencoe,” he continued, “whereby—securing the pass of Rannoch—we cut off every retreat.” He came back to his seat, frowning. “But I am sorry Keppoch and Glengarry are safe,” he added. “Weel, they’re no’ so bad as the Macdonalds,” returned Breadalbane. “Pardon me, my lord; you mean they do not cumber your estates, or thieve your cattle—” answered the Master. “But they prey on Scotland as much as do the Macdonalds.” The secretary entered: “Bring me those maps of the Highlands,” said Sir John. Argyll drummed his fingers on the table; his eyes traveled uneasily round the gorgeous flamboyant room, in an attempt to avoid the cold glance of his cousin opposite. “The Jacobites will try to warn the Macdonalds,” he said. “They will not know that we have determined on severity,” answered Sir John. “Doubtless they consider the Macdonalds came in with the rest.” “And if they do not,” smiled the Viscount, “I think few Jacobites would be devoted enough to journey in this weather to the Highlands with a warning.” “No,” answered his son. “I think the Jacobites are otherwise employed. They have tha tin hand which will ruin them.” “A plot?” questioned Breadalbane calmly. Sir John’s blue eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “Naturally, my lord—they do nothing else. But I have the threads of this in my hands.” Argyll began biting his forefinger nervously, when the Master’s glance fell on him he obviously flushed, but his cousin’s delicate face was unmoved. “Another Bedloe affair, Sir John?” he asked. “No, my lord. There are great names in it—the greatest. In a few days I hope to lay them before the King.” Melville had brought him the maps; he began to lay them out on the table; Argyll gave him a covert look. “See, my lord,” said Sir John, and he handed a paper to Breadalbane. “Is not this correct?” And as he spoke he leaned forward eagerly and traced with his pen the route Hamilton should take from Fort William to Glencoe. Argyll pushed his chair back from the table, withdrawing himself from the discussion. “We’re no’ needed,” he said, with an uneasy smile at the Viscount, and a motion toward the Master and Breadalbane. Viscount Stair lifted his shoulders.