They rode in silence a while; it began to snow and the light rapidly faded.
“’Tis a severe winter,” said Delia. “I would we were in Carlisle.”
She looked wistfully ahead, toward the city lost now in the gathering dusk.
Jerome Caryl, following out his thoughts, spoke again.
“I have Hamilton and Athol—I nearly had Argyll—but he is too fearful—Breadalbane is too cunning to commit himself—of course there are Montgomery and Crauford—and in England I am sure of Marlborough, Cornbury, Rochester and Godolphin—but I need others—there are the common names whose weight is little—whose honor is cheapened with much false swearing.”
Delia responded to the disdain in his even voice:
“That there should be so many traitors!” she cried impulsively. “Sometimes I loathe them all.”
From the dark figure at her side came her brother’s practical voice.
“If you could get Devonshire, Halifax and Dorset, Jerome,” he said, “it were enough. Shrewsbury, too....”
“Ah!” said Jerome softly. “Be careful—even on the open road.”