“And you mistress, go and join your people without—do you not hear them shouting? Go and add your voice to those cursing the Dalrymples—and be content—for to-night all curses are fulfilled.”
She moved slowly nearer to him.
“And what is your thought of me, Lord Stair?”
He made an imperious gesture as if he would have swept her intruding presence aside.
“I have no thought at all for you.”
He stopped, listening; from the confusion of sounds without arose the crackling of flames; he went to the window; fagots and gunpowder had been piled in the court and flaming tarred torches flung into the midst; red lights began to dance in reflections over the floor; and smoke swept in faint clouds past the windows. Lord Stair felt a cold hand touch his and turned to look into the face of Delia.
“For God’s sake,” she whispered, “for pity’s sake.”
He made an impatient attempt to shake her off, but she clung to his hand desperately in a frenzy of entreaty.
“It is burning—don’t you see that it is burning—make haste—at the back through the garden.”
The triumphant shout of the crowd as they saw the flames rise almost drowned her voice; an unnatural red glare blinding, horrible, filled the room from end to end.