The Earl of Breadalbane smiled into the gloomy face of the Master of Stair.
“They hav’na’ taken the oaths,” he said. “I’m no’ likely to be deceived. I have clear reports sent by Glenlyon—and certainly the Macdonalds couldna’ take the oaths without his knowledge.” He glanced round on the three men assembled in the massive drawing-room of the Dalrymples; the Viscount, cool and immovable as himself; Argyll, restless and ill at ease, the Master of Stair, dark and impatient.
“So we may proceed,” he continued, “without any fear o’ offending the law.”
“My lord,” said the Master of Stair, “we should have proceeded in any case. I have struck out the statement that the Macdonalds took the oath.”
Argyll looked up.
“’Tis a dangerous method, Sir John,” he said nervously. “It would look ugly if it ever came to light, ye ken, and there are a plenty of people would gladly turn it about to work our ruin.”
Breadalbane answered:
“Hav’na’ I said, cousin, that they ha’ no’ come in? Therefore we are in our just rights to be punishing avowed traitors.”
“My Lord Argyll,” smiled the Viscount, “you need not fear to embark on an enterprise that your cousin’s caution deems safe.”
Argyll, detecting the sneer, grew peevish.