“Indeed,” put in her brother, “I do think this seething discontent looks well for us—what do you say, Jerome?—the odds are against the Dutchman.”
Jerome looked from one to the other, then gave a bitter little laugh.
“No!” he cried, “the odds are most mightily against King James—and even with the three kingdoms behind us we could do nothing against these men—nothing!”
He struck his hand vehemently on his sword-hilt.
“I have seen it—as I intrigued and waited and watched in London—while half the men of note would go over again to King James and the other half follow if he was here—while the people grumble and curse the Dutchman—while promises of anything may be had for the asking, still three men hold us in check—three men whom every one joins in loathing—but, by Heaven, they hold the three countries with a power we cannot shake!”
He stopped, flushed with the force of his words; Delia looked at him with surprised, indignant eyes; her brother spoke.
“What are these, Jerome?”
“William Carstairs, one; the Master of Stair, two, and three, William of Orange.”
There was a little pause, then Delia made an impatient movement with her foot.
“Three men, Mr. Caryl!” she cried with flashing eyes. “Have we not many threes to match them?”