e said, and her voice had in it a quality that made
him tremble.

"Go?" he echoed stupidly. "You bid me go? You will not hear me?"

"I consented to hear you more than once; refused to hear others who knew
better than I, and was heedless of their warnings. There is no more to
be said between us. I pray God that they may take and hang you."

He was white to the lips, and for the first time in his life he knew
fear and felt his great limbs trembling under him.

"They may hang me and welcome since you believe this thing. They could
not hurt me more than you are doing, nor by hanging me could they
deprive me of aught I value, since your faith in me is a thing to be
blown upon by the first rumour of the countryside."

He saw the pale lips twist themselves into a dreadful smile. "There is
more than rumour, I think," said she. "There is more than all your lies
will ever serve to cloak."

"My lies?" he cried. "Rosamund, I swear to you by my honour that I have
had no hand in the slaying of Peter. May God rot me where I stand if
this be not true!"

"It seems," said a harsh voice behind him, "that you fear God as little
as aught else."

He wheeled sharply to confront Sir John Killigrew, who had entered after
him.

"So," he said slowly, and his eyes grew hard and bright as agates, "this
is your work." And he waved a hand towards Rosamund. It was plain to
what he alluded.

"My work?" quoth Sir John. He closed the door, and advanced into the
room. "Sir, it seems your audacity, your shamelessness, transcends all
bounds. Your...."

"Have done with that," Sir Oliver interrupted him and smote his great
fist upon the table. He was suddenly swept by a gust of passion. "Leave
words to fools, Sir John, and criticisms to those that can defend them
better."

"Aye, you talk like a man of blood. You come hectoring it here in the
very house of the dead--in the very house upon which you have cast this
blight of sorrow and murder...."

"Have done, I say, or murder there will be!"

His voice was a roar, his mien terrific. And bold man though Sir John
was, he recoiled. Instantly Sir Oliver had conquered himself again. He
swung to Rosamund. "Ah, forgive me!" he pleaded. "I am mad--stark mad
with anguish at the thing imputed. I have not loved your brother, it
is true. But as I swore to you, so have I done. I have taken blows from
him, and smiled; but yesterday in a public place he affronted me, lashed
me across the face with his ridin