Delia gave a nervous little laugh and came up to him.
“Why, you are well now,” she said, “and will soon be free—you have no need to brood in the dark.”
He shook his head gloomily.
“’Tis always dark to me,” he answered. “I would I had died.”
There was a soft stir of satin as Delia seated herself on a wooden stool beyond the patch of moonlight; out of the shadows came her hesitating voice.
“Do not talk so—we have a mission for you, my brother and I.”
He made no answer, only dropped his head into his hand and stared at the moon. Delia locked her fingers together; she seemed to have to make an effort to speak, at last she told him of the discussion between her brother and Jerome Caryl, tried to put it forcibly and clearly and ended by offering him the mission of carrying the warning to the Highlands that they must take the oaths of submission to King William.
He listened as if she spoke of something of no importance; the names of the rival kings, of the Master of Stair, had clearly no meaning to him, but he flushed when she mentioned Breadalbane.
“The others may do what they will,” he flung out, “but the Macdonalds of Glencoe will never submit to a Campbell.”
Delia strove, somewhat falteringly, to show him the unreasonableness of this; presently he said drearily: “For the sake of your bread that I’ve eaten, I will do your errand.”