course
to falsehood, using it as a fulcrum upon which to lever out the truth.
He was cunning as all the fiends, and never perhaps did he better
manifest his cunning.

"False?" he cried with scorn. "Come, now, be reasonable. The truth, ere
torture sucks it out of you. Reflect that I know all--exactly as you
told it me. How was it, now? Lurking behind a bush you sprang upon him
unawares and ran him through before he could so much as lay a hand to
his sword, and so...."

"The lie of that is proven by the very facts themselves," was the
furious interruption. A subtle judge of tones might have realized that
here was truth indeed, angry indignant truth that compelled conviction.
"His sword lay beside him when they found him."

But Oliver was loftily disdainful. "Do I not know? Yourself you drew it
after you had slain him."

The taunt performed its deadly work. For just one instant Lionel was
carried off his feet by the luxury of his genuine indignation, and in
that one instant he was lost.

"As God's my witness, that is false!" he cried wildly. "And you know it.
I fought him fair...."

He checked on a long, shuddering, indrawn breath that was horrible to
hear.

Then silence followed, all three remaining motionless as statues:
Rosamund white and tense, Oliver grim and sardonic, Lionel limp,
and overwhelmed by the consciousness of how he had been lured into
self-betrayal.

At last it was Rosamund who spoke, and her voice shook and shifted from
key to key despite her strained attempt to keep it level.

"What... what did you say, Lionel?" she asked. Oliver laughed softly.
"He was about to add proof of his statement, I think," he jeered. "He
was about to mention the wound he took in that fight, which left those
tracks in the snow, thus to prove that I lied--as indeed I did--when I
said that he took Peter unawares.

"Lionel!" she cried. She advanced a step and made as if to hold out her
arms to him, then let them fall again beside her. He stood stricken,
answering nothing. "Lionel!" she cried again, her voice growing suddenly
shrill. "Is this true?"

"Did you not hear him say it?" quoth Oliver.

She stood swaying a moment, looking at Lionel, her white face distorted
into a mask of unutterable pain. Oliver stepped towards her, ready to
support her, fearing that she was about to fall. But with an imperious
hand she checked his advance, and by a supreme effort controlled her
weakness. Yet her knees shook under her, re