She moved impetuously in her chair. “Why?” she asked, “I can understand Breadalbane—but why the Master of Stair? What has he against the Highlands?”
“The contempt of the statesman for the savage,” Caryl answered with a half-smile. “The intolerant arrogance of the powerful against those who oppose him, and the haughty resolution of an imperious soul, Miss Delia.”
“I loathe his make,” she cried. “Hard and cruel—I have heard horrid tales of him—and how he is accursed—he is a fitting servant of William of Orange!”
The color had come into her face; she set her lips resolutely and flung up her head.
“Do you think that the Macdonalds of Glencoe will take the oaths?” she asked abruptly.
“I cannot tell,” he answered gravely.
“And if they did not—” she stopped, then went on bravely. “They are in the heart of the Campbell country—I suppose—I mean, do you think—Breadalbane would—leave any alive?”
“Nay, I cannot tell,” said Jerome Caryl, “I think it is not likely that he would forego this chance against his ancient enemies.”
She rose up suddenly and her clasped hands fell apart and clenched at her sides.
“Ah!” she cried.