The Earl of Stair’s foot beat time softly to the pavan; he gazed with an inscrutable face toward the distant dancers.
“Tweeddale and the other privy councilors will hold this investigation in a day or so—even ye, my lord, canna stop them.”
Still the other made no answer.
“Ye hav’na’,” continued Breadalbane, “the power ye had, my lord, tho’ to the world ye seem at the pinnacle o’ fame—but the Presbyterians and the Jacks together will be too strang for ye noo.”
The Earl’s blue eyes flashed.
“I do not dread the inquiry,” he said. “Albeit it is conducted by my enemies—my bitter enemies, Johnstone and Tweeddale.”
“Ay,” answered Breadalbane, “ye hae mony enemies, and they’ll ruin ye if they can, but ’tis ane bitter enemy has wrought this.”
“Who mean ye?” frowned Lord Stair.
Breadalbane lifted his shoulders.
“I dinna ken—ye should ken best—some one has been at work—persistently, during these three years this tale has been abroad, through the non-jurors, the Jacks—to your enemies in Parliament—till all Scotland is roused. Who is at the bottom of it?”