The Master of Stair 55
Delia stole to the fire and stirred it into flame, casting on peat from
the pile beside her; then, as the light leaped up she turned to the
prostrate man and saw that he was Ronald Macdonald; she went on her
knees in silence and lifted his head onto her lap; he made a little
movement and put his hand over his breast; she saw that his coat was
torn and stained and that the sluggish blood was dripping from a cut in
his forehead. With a shudder she looked about her, called aloud till
she grew frightened of her own echoing voice and was silent for very
horror. Half-mechanically she tore off the cambric ruffles from her
sleeves and then gently laying him back upon the floor, crept to the
door. In a little hollow of the rocks she saw the snow had collected;
hither she carried an earthenware pot and filled it and brought it back
and set it on the fire and waited its melting with a silent, wild face
and busy fingers tearing her ruffles into strips.
She searched the hut for wine, but there was none; broken, empty
bottles lay among the fallen cards.
As best she could she washed his wounds and bound them up, made her
cloak into a pillow for him and edged him a little nearer the fire.
Then she fell into sick weeping, shuddering tears as she wiped the
blood from her fingers.
He moved again and spoke:
“Have they gone?”
She caught the whisper and bent over him.
“Yes.”
He moaned faintly.
“I am so cold—and sick—lift me up a little.”
She took his head onto her lap again; his eyes, a ghastly, icy blue in
his white face, fluttered open.
“Have any escaped?” he whispered.
“God knows—Macdonald.”
So cold it was, so cold, and she so helpless; she cast more peat on the
fire and prayed that some one might come; that some one, in this valley
of the dead, might be living and come.
Through the long, bitter night she knelt so, holding him, till her
limbs were stiff with his weight; he spoke no word, only his struggling
breath showed that he lived.
With the first breaking of the pale gray dawn, he turned his head
toward the open door.
“I hear horses,” he said.
Delia started from a half-swoon.
“I hear none,” she answered.
“They come,” he whispered. “I am dying so slowly—”
“God knows,” she said wildly.
Another silence as a faint light filled the room and the winter dawn
spread above the mountains; then he spoke:
“When I am dead—take my pouch,” he said through labored breaths. “It
holds—Dundee’s spy-glass—I want ye to have it—for staying by me now—”
She cried out in a passionate pity.
“I would not have left a dog, Macdonald!”
“So cold,” he whispered. “The world is freezing into death—I see the
mountains changing into snow and falling—I feel the earth dissolve into
an icy sky and all my life ebb from me—so cold—hark!—the horses!”
Delia could hear them now.
“Why, there is hope,” she cried, “some help is here.”
Even while she uttered the words the entrance was darkened by the
approaching horsemen. Now some one had slipped from the saddle and was
standing on the threshold.
The dying man shuddered in Delia’s arms. “Margaret Campbell!” he
murmured.
Lady Breadalbane turned sharply to him.
“So one Macdonald lives!” she said, and shivered through her heavy furs.
“Have ye brought forty Campbells to murder him!” shrieked Delia.
Lady Breadalbane looked in keen curiosity at the haggard woman who held
the Macdonald’s head.
“Do not use that word!” she cried. “We are innocent of this night’s
work—innocent, I say! Who are you to look so at me?”
“Why have ye come?” asked Delia bitterly.
For answer the Countess swept across the room, dropped on her knees
beside Ronald and took his hand.
“I came,” she said in an eager tone, “to find if any lived—to find
you—Ronald—we are innocent, you understand—innocent!”
He was gazing up into her lovely face with a passion even the chill of
death could not quench utterly.
“What do you want—Margaret Campbell!”
She snatched a paper from her bosom and held it with a trembling hand
out to him.
“Put your mark to this,” she answered hoarsely, “to prove ye believe
that my lord is guiltless of this—”
“Ah!” burst out Delia, “is not Glenlyon your husband’s man?”
“Silence!” commanded the Countess. “I speak to him—”
“What has he to gain from you that his last act should be to testify to
a lie?”
“It is no lie—this is government work not ours!”
Delia raised flashing eyes.
“Then if Breadalbane is innocent—wherefore do ye trouble?” she cried.
“That he may prove to all the world the Macdonalds hold him
guiltless—Ronald—will ye put your mark.”
“No,” said Delia. “She asks too much—by Heaven, too much!”
“Ronald—I will kiss thee,” breathed the Countess. “I will put my arms
about thee—hold thee even as she does—to my bosom—so thou mark’st this.”
He turned from Delia toward her.
“Breadalbane is blood-guilty to the soul,” he gasped. “Yet kiss me—and
I will sign—thy lie.”
She took a pen and inkhorn from her pocket, dipped the pen and put it
between his slack fingers—while Delia tried to force her back.
“Ye shall not do it!” she cried desperately to Ronald.
But he took no heed of her.
“Kiss me—” he murmured, “Margaret! Margaret!”
She caught hold of him, thrusting Delia aside. “Margaret!”
“Sign!” shrieked the Countess at sight of his face, but he rolled out
of her arms between them.
“Ye are too late!” cried Delia, springing up.
Lady Breadalbane gave one look at his dead face, then rose also.
“Well, we do not care, Jock and I,” she said in a quiet fury. “I think
there are no Macdonalds left to harry us—and we can face the world.”
She turned to the doorway and beckoned the man who stood there.
“The man is dead,” she said, flinging back her red hair. “And he has
not given testimony, Glenlyon.”
“No, thank God, thank God!” sobbed Delia wildly.
Glenlyon looked from one to another.
“My lord must bear his own deeds,” he said slowly.
The Countess’s green eyes blazed.
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