Delia, watching him, was quick to see that his impulse was to leave without a word, stride off with no backward look at the hated town. With her head held very stately high she preceded him down the stairs and flung open the parlor door.
The two men turned at her entrance. She made a little gesture toward Macdonald, and spoke in English.
“My Highlander—and he is so eager to leave us, Perseus, he would do anything—he will take your message.”
Crossing to the fire, she seated herself, leaving Macdonald in the doorway. He eyed the two Saxons with frank interest; his glance rested long on the beautiful face of Jerome Caryl.
“I am to translate, Perseus,” said Delia. “What do you want to say?”
Jerome looked at the huge Highlander with approval.
“Ask him to sit down,” he said. “He looks honest.”
Delia obeyed with an air almost of disdain; Jerome, glancing at her, wondered what had damped her eager spirits; she was very grave and pale; her eyes were fixed with a curious expression on Macdonald; her mouth had a little lift of scorn.
She sat so, very still, translating her brother’s questions and explanations into Gaelic, and Jerome Caryl watched her.
Macdonald listened with gravity and attention, appeared to understand what was asked of him and received into his keeping the letters to the Highland chiefs with a solemn promise to deliver them.