Whether this paroxysm had wrought me to a swoon I know not, but I wondered to feel a hand upon my head, stroking my hair with touch marvellous gentle, and therewith a voice: "Comfort thee, comfort thee, poor youth! These be rages and despairs that many do suffer at the first; in a little shall come back thy courage and with it hope--that hope, alas, that never dieth--even here. 'Lo, I am with thee,' saith the Lord--so be comforted, young sir. Let other thoughts distract thy mind--let us converse if thou wilt. Tell me, I pray, how didst know my unhappy name?"
"Because," said I, starting from his touch, "I am son to the man you foully murdered by false accusation. I am Martin Conisby, Lord Wendover of Shere and last of my line!"
Now at this he drew away and away, staring on me great-eyed and I heard the breath gasp between his pallid lips.
"What--do you here, my lord?"
"Seek my just vengeance!"
"The vengeance of a Conisby!" he murmured.
"Six years ago I broke from the hell of slavery you sold me into and ever since have sought you with intent to end the feud once and for ever."
"The feud?" he muttered. "Aye, we have shed each other's blood for generations--when your grandfather fought and slew my father on the highway beyond Lamberhurst village I, a weeping boy, kissing the wound his rapier had made, vowed to end the Conisbys one day and came nigh doing it, God forgive me. So doth one sin beget others, and so here to-day, in the gloom of my dungeon, I yield myself to your vengeance, my lord, freely and humbly confessing the harms I did you and the base perfidy of my actions. So, an you will have my miserable life, take it and with my last breath I will beseech God pardon you my blood and bring you safe out of this place of torment and sorrow. God knoweth I have endured much of agony these latter years and yet have cherished my life in despite my sufferings hitherto, aye, cherished it so basely as to turn apostate that I might live yet a little longer--but now, my lord, freely--aye, joyfully will I give it, for your vengeance, praying God of His abounding mercy to pardon my most grievous offences but, being grown weak in courage and body by reason of frequent and grieveous torturings, this mayhap shall plead my excuse. Come then, Martin Conisby, your hand upon my throat, your fetter-chain about my neck--"
"Have done!" said I. "Have done!" And getting up, I crossed to the extremest corner of the dungeon and cast myself down there. But in a little he was beside me again, bearing the lanthorn and with straw from his bed for my pillow, whereupon I cursed and bade him begone, but he never stirred.