“The Master o’ Stair will manage him—he is deep in his confidence.”
“Weel.” Argyll looked at her doubtfully, “I have written to the Master o’ Stair that I dinna do anything without the King’s name as authority. I will na put my neck in jeopardy.”
“The King’s name!” She lifted her head with a superb contempt. “Who is king in the Hielands? Ye are MacCallum More—will ye defer to a foreigner who canna speak your tongue—who hasna’ seen your country? By Heaven, I think the Campbells can rule in the Hielands without a Dutchman’s warrant!”
“Breadalbane is no’ o’ that mind,” sneered Argyll. “He took the oaths fast enow.”
“But he dinna consult William o’ Orange every time he wishes to hang a Macdonald,” retorted the Countess.
But Argyll was obstinate.
“I willna’ put my neck in jeopardy,” he repeated. “Show me the King’s name and I’m content—but I’ll no’ move without it.”
The Countess Peggy’s thin lips compressed scornfully. “Vera weel,” she said. “The Master o’ Stair will get the King’s authority, cousin.”
“You’re ower fond o’ quoting the Master o’ Stair,” said Argyll sourly; the news of the clans coming in had frightened his irresolute mind; he was ready to wash his hands of the whole affair.
“The Master o’ Stair!” repeated the Countess. “Cousin, he is the most powerfu’ man in the Lowlands, ye ken, and great in London—he is o’ our views—cousin, I do weel to quote the Master o’ Stair!”