“Vera weel, my lady,” answered Glenlyon awkwardly.
The sneer on Argyll’s face deepened.
“Will ye be closing the door after ye?” he asked sourly. “I’m in a fearful draught.”
With nervous salutations, Glenlyon obeyed; he was a red-haired, florid man, obviously ill at ease in the presence of Argyll and the Countess. There was a little pause: the Earl, fretful at having his tea disturbed, pointedly ignored Glenlyon, who, after delivering his letter, stood uncomfortably by the door.
Erect and slender in the center of the room stood the Countess, the soft light glittering on the stiff folds of her silk gown. She broke the seal of the letter and with eager eyes glanced over it, her fair face anxious and absorbed. She had her back to Argyll, and he marked with a slow cold admiration the curve of her neck rising from the webs and blossoms of her d’Alençon lace kerchief and the long, fine, gleaming gold curls that fell over her shoulders; drooping against the soft turn of her cheek hung the brilliant in her ear: it winked with a thousand colors in the candle-light and trembled a little with the quick moving of her breath.
There was a silence in the cream-colored room. Glenlyon began to note the things about him with furtive red eyes, and cautiously shifted his feet from the edge of the pink carpet onto the polished boards.
Suddenly, the Countess looked up and turned to Argyll.
“Cousin,” she cried, “the clans are coming in!”
The paper shook in her hand and her eyes flashed under lifted brows.
“Lochiel’s tacksmen are taking the oaths by the hundreds, the Macphersons and the Frasers, the Munros and the Macleods are come in—” Her voice was sharp and angry. “’Tis most sudden—most unexpected!” she cried.