“Every soldier under Glenlyon knows that this was a military execution—every man among them can disprove this wild tale of the Jacobites—”
“The Argyllshire regiment is in America,” said Breadalbane, “and I hav’na’ seen Glenlyon since he left my service suddenly—disappeared—”
Lord Stair seemed struck into a frowning silence for a moment. At length he asked:
“Whom will they examine—these commissioners?”
Breadalbane lifted his light eyes.
“Sandy and Ian Macdonald who escaped—Keppoch and Glengarry—I dinna ken—what others—I am nae in their secrets.”
Again in silence Lord Stair looked out across the ball-room; the delicate melody of the pavan came exquisitely through the roses.
Lord Stair’s mouth curved into a little smile; he did not fear; he despised his enemies; that they had discovered such a weapon as this against him roused his bitter amusement more than his wrath. He disdained to be moved by insults raked from the very mud of the gutter; he cared nothing for tales started in Jacobite pamphlets. No remorse troubled him with regard to Glencoe; he was too sure of himself, his great position, the King’s friendship, to tremble before the Scottish Parliament.
“Let them open the commission,” he said loftily, “let them listen to the lies of Highland savages. I shall not lift a finger to prevent them. They must have a party cry—as well Glencoe as any other.”
He took one of the roses from the bowl on the card table and pulled idly at the curling leaves; his eyes were carelessly following the figure of his wife as her gold embroideries flashed among the dancers.