Marjorie Bowen

“ Jerome Caryl rose from his seat beside Berwick and looked down the table; the light was strong on his grave face and the Countess Peggy never took her gaze from him.
"So—you plan to murder the Prince of Orange?" said Jerome calmly.
There was an annoyed silence; a half-sullen uneasiness seemed to pervade the company, then Berwick said, in an unwilling manner: "It ain't murder—we're just going to take him off—when he changes coaches at the river—as he always does on Saturday when he goes hunting—"
"Twenty men to one," answered Jerome. "It is murder." ”

“ Berwick flushed to the roots of his hair. "You use ugly words, Caryl."
"Yet I state your meaning, sir."
"I said nothing of—murder."
"You spoke of making away with the Prince."
"A lucky thrust—a lucky shot."
"Such as might happen any day," finished Porter.
"In war," said Caryl.
"Isn't it always war—till the King returns?"
"You plan murder."
"By God, Caryl, you go too far."
"Your grace goes farther,"
"In the service of the King—yes."
"Perhaps—honor is above the King."
"No cant, Mr. Caryl," shouted Porter.
"I will not commit murder."
"Who asked it? We want no help." ”

“ Porter demanded why Breadalbane should always be shielded when better men came to the fore; and Celia Hunt muttered an audible sneer about Scottish caution.
The Countess Peggy looked round the company defiantly; her eyes fell mistrustfully to the unmoved face of Jerome Caryl ”