picture of a young cavalier, richly habited, who smiled down
grey-eyed and gentle-lipped, all care-free youth and gaiety; and
beneath this portrait ran the words:

MARTIN CONISBY, LORD WENDOVER. Aetat. 21.

"Madam," quoth I at last, turning my back on the picture, "Yon innocent
was whipped to death aboard a Spanish galleass years since, wherefore
I, a poor rogue, come seeking his destroyer."

"Sir," says she, clasping her hands and viewing me with troubled eyes,
"O sir--whom mean you?"

"One who, having slain the father, sold the son into slavery, to the
hell of Spanish dungeon and rowing-bench, to stripes and shame and
torment, one the just God hath promised to my vengeance--I mean Richard
Brandon."

"Ah--mercy of God--my father! Ah no, no--it cannot be! My father?
Sure here is some black mistake."

"Being his daughter you should know 'tis very truth! Being a Brandon
you must know of the feud hath cursed and rent our families time out of
mind, the bitter faction and bloodshed!"

"Aye!" she murmured, "This I do know."

"Well, madam, five years agone, or thereabouts, my father falsely
attainted of treason, died in his prison and I, drugged and trepanned
aboard ship, was sold into the plantations, whence few return--and
Richard Brandon, enriched by our loss and great at court, dreamed he
had made an end o' the Conisbys and that the feud was ended once and
for all."

"My lord," says she, proud head upflung, "I deny all this! Such
suspicion, so base and unfounded, shameth but yourself. You have dared
force your way into my house at dead of night, and now--O now you would
traduce my absent father, charging him with shameful crimes--and this
to me, his daughter! Enough, I'll hear no more, begone ere I summon my
servants and have you driven forth!" and, seizing the bell-rope that
hung against the panelling, she faced me, her deep bosom heaving
tempestuous, white hands clenched and scorning me with her eyes.

"Ring!" says I, and seated myself in a chair beside her great bed.

"Have you no shame?"

"None, madam, 'twas all whipped out o' me aboard the 'Esmeralda'
galleass. Ring, madam! But I go not till I learn, once and for all,
if Sir Richard be here or no."

Now at this she loosed the bell-rope very suddenly and, covering her
face with her hands, stood thus awhile:

"God pity me!" says she at last in weeping voice. "I may not forget
how you saved me from--" Here a tremor seemed to shake her; the