The deathly stillness was broken by the soft opening of the door, the soft closing of it, and a gentle step into the room.
Lord Stair looked round.
Standing against the armor, in the strange faint lights and shades was a woman in a light dress with the red glow of the dawn in her blonde hair and over her pale face; Lady Stair, looking at him intently, eagerly, with questioning blue eyes.
“Ulrica!” he could utter no word but her name; the blood rushed into his face as he stared at her, incredulous, amazed.
“I was too late,” she said faintly; she sat down at his seat at the table; there were lines of weariness under her eyes, and her dress was tumbled. “My woman told you?” her hands holding a riding-whip, fell between the crystal warrior and the nymph on her gold vase. Lord Stair came in front of Delia, hiding her from sight.
“I have heard nothing,” he said hoarsely. “When I returned the house was empty save for one man—”
“Oh!” she glanced up, bewildered by his manner. “I heard that they were going to burn the house—I did not trust the servants—I went myself to ask the Marquis for a guard—he sent me on to the castle—and there they put such difficulties in the way—and—I was too late.”
She leaned back wearily.
“They sent some men—they are putting the fire out now—the city was in such an uproar that I could not return sooner—I thought that you might be here so I came. You never got my message?”
“No.”