After that there fell a most melancholy silence. The major, who had hoped to spend a peaceful old age, and who had stepped like a cat among puddles during the last disturbance, wished Muckle John far enough and Miss Macpherson much farther.
The whole heart of the warm fire (and it was a chill day) seemed to have fallen into thin ashes. He shivered dismally and took a dreary relish in praying that he might catch his death of cold.
Once he screwed his eye slowly about and let it rest moodily upon Miss Macpherson. But she was absorbed in her scheming, and that is a game that comes painfully to untutored persons.
"I see nothing for it," she said at last, "but just to shoot him."
"The Duke?" gasped Castleleathers.
"Who else—he'd be no loss. There's little of the William Wallace in you, my man."
"I am not wanting in personal courage," groaned Castleleathers, "indeed, I have seen service abroad, but this is beneath me, madam—quite beneath me."
Miss Macpherson leaped at a grim jest to bring him to his senses.
"There'll be nothing beneath ye if you don't," she said swiftly.
He recoiled from such a pleasantry. He had always deplored the brutality of utter frankness.