“They plot still,” persisted the Master of Stair, “and they plot assassination.”
“Is it not al-way’ so?”
“Your Majesty,” cried Sir John, “I say again you are too careless; for a certainty my Lord Marlborough is in this, and Marlborough is the army; Russell is in it, and Russell is the navy. I think Breadalbane has meddled, though darkly.”
“All this is mos’ true, Sir John,” returned the King, “but it is al-so true that while I am at St. Jame’ and my uncle at St. Germains they will do nothing.”
“I have said that they plot assassination, and now that you have destroyed all proof, all evidence, your Majesty’s life is not safe. How can you tell who is in this conspiracy; how judge of the loyalty of the men about you? Any one of them may be in Berwick’s pay to murder your Majesty!”
William sat up and leaned across the table.
“Sir John,” he said, “I am surprise’ that a man of your—esprit bring me these child tale’—I do not think I shall be murder’, but I will take the risk of it—and now we will speak of Scotlan’.”
His cold voice was a dismissal of the subject.
The Master of Stair caught his breath in an effort at self-control; he had served the King at infinite labor and some risk; he had gathered all the threads of this conspiracy into his hands at the price of two men’s lives, and it had been for nothing. If he could not crush the Jacobites he wanted at least the glory of sparing them; and he had neither the satisfaction of one nor the other; his wrath rose against the King, he did not comprehend his motives. His own impulse was to sweep the country clear of Jacobites by fire and sword or, if it must be mercy, to confront them with proofs of their guilt and then forgive them grandly before all the world.
His passion at this dismal end to his intrigues grew beyond bearing; he looked up with lowering brows.