Lady Breadalbane made no answer; she never lowered her eyes from his gaze; nor bent her head nor moved, but she could not speak.
He turned to the coach door and leaped to the ground.
A fine drizzle of rain was falling and the grass was sodden beneath his feet; the coach lamps shone on the two steaming white horses and showed a bare branched tree that grew nearby; the place was solitary, silent, ghostly. Jerome Caryl looked round him and his blood rose strangely.
He turned to the great Highlander who blocked his path.
“Let me pass.”
For answer they seized him, each by one shoulder; at the feel of their hands on him, the blood rushed to his face, but he held himself still.
Lady Breadalbane came to the door of the coach and looked down on him.
“Will ye swear not to warn the Prince?” she shivered. “Then ye may gang awa’ a free man.”
His beautiful face turned to her unmoved. “I have answered you.”
“Then I hav’na’ a choice,” she moaned.