The writer added a sentence, unknown, as he explained, to Flemington.
“The matter is serious,” he wrote, “the Duke of Cumberland is still in Edinburgh. It might be well if you could see him. Make no delay, as we await his orders.”
She stood, turning cold, her eyes fixed on the maid.
“Eh—losh, mem!” whimpered Mysie, approaching her with her hands raised.
Madam Flemington felt as though her brain refused to work. There seemed to be nothing to drive it forward. The world stood still. The walls, an imprisoning horror, shut her in from all movement, all action, when action was needed. She had never felt Ardguys to be so desperately far from the reach of humanity, herself so much cut off from it, as now. And yet she must act. Her nearest channel of communication was the judge, riding away.
“Fool!” she cried, seizing Mysie, “run—run! Send the boy after Lord Balnillo. Tell him to run!”
The maid hesitated, staring at the pallor of her mistress’s face.
“Eh, but, mem—sit you down!” she wailed.
Christian thrust her from her path as though she had been a piece of furniture, and swept into the hall. A barefooted youth was outside by the door. He stared at her, as Mysie had done. She took him by the shoulder.