"Every minute that hath passed since I stepped into the main cabin of the New Venture to see the face of the mysterious songbird hath been a persistent suit," I declared.
"And you would really wed an unrelenting Jacobite?" she murmured.
"Whatever you are I love you, and as a reformed Jacobite I can see reasons for forgiving your contumacy."
Her face grew serious.
"As I told you once before—" she shuddered with the memory of the incident—"I have learned much since leaving Scotland. I know that you are no traitor and your beliefs are honorable and patriotic, and that Country means more than King. But, Harry, you will be overlooking the narrowness of a poor maid brought up in a Scots Jacobite household to consider the Stuart cause sacred—will you not?"
"So sweet a recantation!" sneered Murray at my elbow. "He will never be able resist you, my dear."
She withdrew so that I stood between her and her uncle.
"I have supported much from you, sir," she answered coldly; "in part through mistaken loyalty to the object you said you served; in part because, evil though you were, you were my flesh and blood. But from this day I disown you. I will be having naught to do with you. You mean nothing to me. You are a horrid specter I expel from my mind."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"'Tis a fitting reward for the loving care I gave you, Mistress Marjory. You are with me until my fortunes wane. Well, I am content. Henceforth Andrew Murray plays his own hand alone. Yet it suits me, my children, to annoy you to the extent of assuring you my blessing and good wishes.