The secretary assented meekly. The Master of Stair leaned back in his chair; above his red gown his colorless face showed of a ghastly pallor.
“I will write to Breadalbane,” he said, “I will dictate the letter.”
Melville drew a sheet of paper toward him and dipped his pen in the ink.
“Head it Kensington,” said Sir John. “And say—I am sorry Glengarry and Keppoch are safe—but glad Makian has not come in—it will be a great work of charity to be exact in rooting out that damnable race—the worst in all the Highlands. I rejoice that they have not taken the oaths.”
The secretary’s pen went busily over the paper; Sir John took up his wine-glass and emptied it slowly.
“That is all,” he said. “Fill that out.”
The secretary handed the finished letter across the table and Sir John signed it, then fell back again in his chair. In silence, Melville put the papers together.
“There in my own hand—for my son in Holland,” said the Master of Stair. “Put them up—maybe the child will never read them, nevertheless send them.” He put his hand to his head and the strange distortion of his mouth deepened, marring his face.
Melville cleared the table and put the letters neatly into a portfolio; wiped the pens and took away the inkstands; his quiet movements did not disturb the silence.
“Give me that letter on the floor,” said the Master of Stair, suddenly.