He gave her a tender look.
“Why—they hay’na’ ony evidence against me, Peggy—I didna’ put my name to rash letters—they canna prove onything—I’m safe enow—and sae is Argyll—though he is half-demented wi’ fear.”
“But this trumped up foolery o’ Glenlyon feasting a fortnicht in the Glen, Jock—that touches us—”
The Earl smiled.
“It doesna’—Glenlyon had his commands frae Hamilton na frae me—and Glenlyon—Glenlyon hae been bought by the Jacks—I hae heard—this vera evening—that he hae appeared and will be examined before the commissioners.”
“But however Glenlyon lee—we can disprove that the Campbells were in the Glen a fortnicht.”
“We can,” answered the Earl, “but we willna’. Dinna ye see, Peggy—we must ken naething o’ what occurred—we were miles awa’—at Kilchurn, we must say—we ken naething—naething. If we disprove lees that dinna harm us we must reveal the truth—which wad be vera damaging.”
“Then Lord Stair will indeed be ruined,” said the Countess slowly. “But it is na ony business o’ ours. Ye may trust my silence, Jock.”
She moved to the window and pulled aside the curtain; the stars hung bright and luminous above the sleeping city; a church clock struck one.
The Countess Peggy leaned her head against the mullions and her face fell into lines of weariness; she twisted the ends of her bright hair in and out of slack fingers and the withered roses on her breast, crushed against the window-frame, shed their faded leaves at her feet.