Lady Stair looked after him, and her gentle face grew hard: her delicate hand waved her fan to and fro, slowly under her chin; she stood erect, silent.
The music crept to her ears in a slow melody; the gently moving fan kept time with it; with narrowed eyes she turned and looked at herself in the mirror.
It was a tragic face she saw there, a hopeless face.
With a curious impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the lips of her reflection, kissed the cold glass and smiled into her own eyes, with an utter sadness.
CHAPTER III
THE TRIUMPH OF THE CAMPBELLS
The guests had gone; the roses hung limp and faded; guttering, dying candles cast a dull light over the Countess Peggy as she stood in her deserted ball-room.
She leaned against a mirror; her red hair fell over her bare white shoulders and purple dress; at her bosom drooped a cluster of crimson roses; with anxious eyes she looked at the gray-clad figure of her husband, who sat beside her in an attitude of utter weariness.
“What will be the end of it, Jock?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Ruin for the Earl o’ Stair,” he answered, “They’ve set their minds to it, Tweeddale and his crew, and they’ll na be letting him escape, there is enough against him to hang him—though he’ll no’ be persuaded of it.”
“Let Lord Stair go,” said the Countess, “I dinna care—what will be the end of it for ye, Jock?”