“Then, wench, I shall put that list before the King,” he answered, “and the business will be done with—this popish scum will lie quiet a while.”
“Clean work for a gentleman, Sir John,” she cried in a clear scorn. “I know some dirty knaves would not go to such lengths of treachery to save their necks—”
He swung round on her; but she laughed up into his face without flinching.
“Why, you can kill me,” she said, “I am a Jacobite, a smuggler, I’ve helped many a fugitive out of England and many a conspirator in—and if you are what you say, I am doubly glad to be the enemy of the government whose ministers are such as you!”
“You are very reckless,” said the Master of Stair. “I shall not forget you are outside the law.”
“As you are outside hope of Heaven!” she answered him fiercely. “Accursed, root and branch—you damned Dalrymples—oh, I have heard some tales of you—if you indeed be he they call the Master of Stair.”
He put his hand to his side and stared down at her; he had grown ghastly white.
Lithe and quick in her movements she swung close to him, the blood flushing her dark cheek.
“How did your sister die?” she mocked with the courage of desperation.
“As any man’s might have done,” he answered hoarsely.