ing to say?"

"Nothing, madam."

"You would have me think you this murderer?"

"I would have you think of me none at all," I answered, and smiled to
see how I had stirred her anger at last.

"Nay," sighs she, "needs must I think of you as the poor, mean thing
you are and pity you accordingly!"

"Howbeit," says I, scowling blacker than ever, "I will get me out of
your sight--"

"Aye, but the ladder is gone!"

"No matter," says I, "better a broken neck to-night than a noose
to-morrow. To-morrow, aye, the dawn is like to see an end of the feud
and the Conisbys both together--"

"And so shameful an end!" says she. At this, I turned my back on her,
for anger was very strong in me. So, nothing speaking, I got to my
knees that I might come at the trap beneath her berth; but next moment
I was on my feet glaring round for some weapon to my defence, for on
the air was sudden wild tumult and hubbub, a running of feet and
confused shouting that waxed ever louder. Then, as I listened, I knew
it was not me they hunted, for now was the shrill braying of a trumpet
and the loud throbbing of a drum:

"Martin--O Martin Conisby!" She stood with hands clasped and eyes wide
in a dreadful expectancy, "What is it?" she panted, "O what is it?
Hark--what do they cry!"

Rigid and motionless we stood to listen; then every other emotion was
'whelmed and lost in sudden, paralysing fear as, above the trampling
rush of feet, above the shrill blast of tucket and rolling of drum we
caught the awful word "Fire!"

"Now God help us all!" cries she, wringing her hands; then sinking to
her knees, she leaned, half-swooning, against the door, yet I saw her
pallid lips moving in passionate supplication.

As for me (my first panic over) I sat me on her bed revolving how I
might turn the general confusion to the preservation of my life. In
this I was suddenly aroused by my lady's hand on my bowed shoulder.

"Hark!" cries she, "Hark where they cry for aid!"

"Why so they do," says I. "And so they may!"

"Then come, let us out. You are a strong man, you will help to save
the ship."

"And hang thereafter? Not I, madam!"

"Will you do nothing?" cried she, clenching her hands.

"Verily, madam. I shall do my earnest endeavour to preserve this poor
rogue's body o' mine from noose and flame. But as for the ship--let it
burn, say I."

"Spoke like a very coward!" says she in bitter scorn. "And a coward is
selfish always." So saying she