The Earl of Stair was breathing fast, he clenched his hand on the rose petals and his angry eyes glanced disdainfully over his companion; but Breadalbane kept his composure.
“As ye mak’ naething o’ the affair,” he remarked dryly, “ye dinna need to care that the Marquis o’ Tweeddale will be reading your letters.”
“Care?” echoed Lord Stair. “I care for none of it—you, my lord, behave according to your nature. I am your guest. We will let the matter of the papers pass. After all I should not have expected otherwise, and I am not ashamed of what I have written.”
Breadalbane was quiet, slightly discomfited by the magnificent manner and person of the man whose reckless imprudence his cunning despised.
Lord Stair rose, sweeping the petals in a cloud onto the floor; bowed, and passed into the ball-room.
The gavotte was over, the company stood about in little knots; as Lord Stair passed he heard fragments of their converse; it seemed that they talked of nothing save Glencoe, Glencoe and the impending commission.
Johnstone was there, his fellow-minister and rival; he crossed the room to make some smiling remarks to him upon the current topic.
“Ye have some enemy at work, my lord,” said Johnstone with a pleasant spite.
Lord Stair gazed at him in a disdainful silence, but the words pierced the armor of his splendid scorn.
Had not Breadalbane said the same? Some secret enemy working his ruin.