“Jerome dead! By whose orders?” Delia’s tone had dropped to dullness. She seemed to be re-acting some old and ghostly dream; she had said such words before—and now the answer came the same.
“The Master of Stair,” said the Countess, looking her full in the face. “They found him dead on Hounslow Heath; which was the more likely—highwaymen or the Master of Stair?”
“Ye think that by his orders Jerome Caryl was slain?”
“I leave it to ye,” answered the Countess and with a fierce abruptness she was gone.
They heard the thunder of her escort down the Glen as the Campbells swept away.
Delia came forward with clenched hands.
“Three,” she said in a choked voice, staring down at Ronald. “God bear witness that it is three that he has taken from me—three men wantonly slain.”
She put her hand over her distorted face and swung round toward Glenlyon.
“Why have ye stayed?” she asked.
He came slowly near to her, looking at her strangely. “What are you going to do?” he asked.