“Now will that thought last till next we meet?” he asked. “Why you know,” she said wonderingly, “do we not love each other?” “Yet you will not kiss me?” She drooped again in shyness. “I have said enough—without,” she murmured. “Then, Delia—farewell.” She glanced at him timidly. “I—do not use your name,” she whispered. “And yet I know it and yet I am afraid—and know not—” “Why, you shall call me by it now,” he answered. “And next time it shall be nothing else—John.” “John!” she echoed, bewildered. “But your name is Andrew.” He stared a second, then laughed. “But those I love do use my second name.” “Yet I mislike it,” she said. “And ever in my thoughts you are Andrew.” “Why do you mislike the name of John?” he asked. “It is linked for me with the Master of Stair,” said Delia. “He is our enemy and hateful to me—I would not call you by the name of that accursed man.” “Then call me what you will,” he answered swiftly. “There are strange names you will use to me yet—God knows! Farewell!” “Ah, stay—for I have something to say,” she whispered. He stopped, waiting; they stood in so dark a shadow that she could only see the outline of his figure. “About the Macdonalds of Glencoe,” she said. “I would ask you to help me save them.” Her voice fell very tenderly. “I have a great reason to wish to save them,” she continued. “There is one among them whom I thought—ah, I thought—” She laughed happily—“I thought I cared for till I met you—no one knew—but I believed I cared—yet it was only pity and loneliness—yet did I vow to save him—and now—do not you see? Out of loyalty to that old vow of mine, I am pledged to save him still.” He was silent. She drew timidly a little closer. “You understand?” she asked anxiously. “I understand,” he said gloomily. “That you should ask me! I have no power.” “’Twill be a service to the King,” she answered. “Ah, as you love me—” He took the words from her lips. “As I love you, I will do it,” he said recklessly. “Now will you kiss me?” She held out her hands. “If you ask it,” she said passionately. He took her hands in his and stared down into her surrendered face; then suddenly let her go. “No,” he said, “I will wait till you do offer it. Farewell.” He turned away abruptly into the darkness. She listened to his footsteps till they had died into the distance, then she turned and went slowly toward the Abbey. She entered it on tiptoe; there were lights burning on the altar, but it was empty; she passed lightly down the chancel till she reached the door that led into the little chapel of St. Faith. With hushed heart she entered; here she could think she was in a church undefiled by another faith; the reformer’s hand had passed this corner by; two candles burnt on the low altar; the air was close and heavy; from the dark walls leaned wild angel faces with parted lips and blown-back hair, as if they strained out of the stone to cry aloud to those beneath.