“How did your brother die?” she cried.
“Stop!” cried the Master of Stair, “Stop!”
But she drew herself up defiantly and flung out “How did your son die, Sir John Dalrymple! Surely there is a curse on you!”
He stood motionless, staring.
“I think his brother killed him,” whispered Celia Hunt. “I think your brother shot himself for hate of you—I think your sister went mad and slew her bridegroom—”
“Does all the world know this?” he said in a strange voice.
“Your family has been a fine subject for common talk these many years,” she answered.
He gave a vacant laugh and turned on his heel.
“I have borne too much for your tongue to move me much—yet—if you speak of him again—my God!—I shall strike you silent!”
Despite herself his tone awed her; she shrank back into the shadows and her venom died on her tongue.