Marjorie Bowen

“ He looked up at her and his eyes were not the eyes of any mere ordinary man, she thought.
"I am John Dalrymple," he said, "what have you heard of me that you shrink away so?"
"And you do this work!" she cried.
"I would trust no other man to do this work I have in hand," he answered. "Nobles and princes are among your Jacobite plotters—we do not send hired scum to combat them. I am the Master of Stair." ”

“ The secretary's pen went busily over the paper; Sir John took up his wine-glass and emptied it slowly.
"That is all," he said. "Fill that out."
The secretary handed the finished letter across the table and Sir John signed it, then fell back again in his chair. In silence, Melville put the papers together.
"There in my own hand—for my son in Holland," said the Master of Stair. "Put them up—maybe the child will never read them, nevertheless send them." He put his hand to his head and the strange distortion of his mouth deepened, marring his face. ”

“ I am the Master of Stair. I am Scotland I do not need a home—a woman's affection—those things are for smaller men and what matter if they point at me as a man accursed—is not my name stately high above it all? ”

“ He lifted his wild, blue eyes with something almost like appeal in them.
"It makes a tale for common folk to mouth," he said. "Can nothing be buried too deep for spite to unearth it? Twenty years ago! I remember I wore my first sword that day—cursed—what sins have we done to be so cursed? Melville—you were there when they brought my dead son home—" He leaned across the table and his voice sank. ”

“ He dashed the letter down.
"Melville, you will get me those maps of the Highlands I spoke of—I must see Breadalbane—he is in London now—his caution allows him to put but little on paper."
"Yes, Sir John," answered the secretary and noting his master's angry tone he gave him a furtive glance and saw him still brooding gloomily over Breadalbane's letter.
There followed a long pause of utter slience; then the secretary was roused into a start by a letter being flung down the table with a force that sent it onto the carpet by his feet ”

“ My lord, your father, says he will send this with the other letters, the Lord can alone tell if you will get this, as my lord, your father, as you know, lies to me without pity, yet complaints of him are not the reason of my writing, yet I would say few women would take from him what I do patiently being past long since all attempts to move either you or him to any consideration for me whose fate is the heartbroken and neglected, with no friend but one whom you know—and do not like, I mean Tom Wharton, who is often here now ”