"You have lied to save him from me!" I cried. "You lie--ha, confess!" And I strode towards her, the long blade a-glitter in my quivering grasp.
"Would you kill me?" says she, all unflinching and with eyes that never wavered. "Would you murder a helpless maid--Martin Conisby?" The rapier fell to the rug at my feet and lay there, my breath caught, and thus we stood awhile, staring into each other's eyes.
"Martin Conisby is dead!" says I at last.
For answer she pointed to the wall above my head and, looking thither, I saw the 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?"