His sister gave a little pant of suppressed excitement; the bold and restless spirit of Jerome Caryl was akin to her own; he was the soul of this plot in which she was engaged; of her own religion, her own views; a man whom next to her brother she admired of all others.
And for six months she had not seen him; the while he plotted in London, they plotted in Scotland; he might have great news to tell; she was confident his fervor and ability could remove obstacles that to the slower mind of her brother seemed insurmountable.
Her fingers shaking, she lit the candles on the chimneypiece; as the pointed flames sprang up they showed the face of Delia; a strong face with great brown eyes and a passionate mouth; a low-browed fair face, very eager and bright with the thick hazel hair falling round the full, curved white throat and lace collar.
She caught up one of the candles and ran out on to the head of the stairs.
A man was coming up; she could hear the jingle of his spurs and the drag of his sword.
“Mr. Caryl!” she cried, leaning over the baluster.
He came now into the circle of the candle-light, a tall figure in steel and leather, with a long, dark traveling cloak over his shoulder.
“Himself, madam,” he answered, and looked up with a smile.
She came running down the stairs to meet him and gave him her hand between laughing and crying.
“Oh, sir, Mr. Caryl—you have some news?” she panted.