“I think I will,” she said, and held out her hand.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
THE RECKONING
It was the very height of spring in Edinburgh; the middle of May, 1695; the warm sunny day was fading into dusk and the street lamps were lit and glittering yellow through the twilight. Before a magnificent mansion in the finest part of the city, a large crowd was gathered, an angry crowd that surged up and down, murmuring dangerously.
And in the front room of the mansion a man sat alone and listened to that ominous sound without.
The vast room was unlit and the long windows open to the balcony and fresh spring air; the heavy furnishing was splendid to excess; its one occupant sat before a gold harpsichord, leaning against it, with face turned toward the window; close to his elbow stood a crystal vase of early white roses and violets and on the white wall behind him was painted a cluster of hollyhocks and pinks.
He was sumptuously attired in heavy white satin that shimmered in the dusk; round his neck hung the dull gold knots and roses of the collar of St. George, and below his knees the bright blue of the Garter showed; there were patches on his face and his black ringlets were elaborately curled and powdered in the front.
His unbuckled sword lay along the harpsichord; now and then as the murmur rose to a shout he laid his hand upon it and his black brows frowned. For John Dalrymple, first Earl of Stair, felt very keenly to-night what it meant to be the best hated man in Scotland.
After a while he arose with a stir of perfume and crossed midway to the window.
The crowd below had gathered in numbers; they pressed close against his iron gates; and from the confusion of voices one word rose distinctly: