the sun
to-morrow--good-night, sweet wench!"

I crouched in the curtains of the great bed as the latch clicked and
the room filled with the soft glow of a candle; a moment's silence,
then:

"O Marjorie, I'll wear the green taffety in the morning. Nay indeed,
I'll be my own tirewoman to-night."

The light was borne across the room; then coming softly to the door I
closed it and, setting my back against it, leaned there. At the small
sound I made she turned and, beholding me, shrank back, and I saw the
candlestick shaking in her hand ere she set it down upon the carved
press beside her.

"Who is it--who is it?" she questioned breathlessly, staring at my
bruised and swollen features.

"A rogue you had dragged lifeless to the pillory!"

"You?" she breathed. "You! And they set you in the pillory? 'Twas by
no order of me."

"'Tis no matter, lady, here was just reward for a rogue," says I. "But
now I seek Sir Richard--"

"Nay indeed--indeed you shall not find him here."

"That will I prove for myself!" says I, and laid hand on latch.

"Sir," says she in the same breathless fashion, "why will you not
believe me? Seek him an you will, but I tell you Sir Richard sailed
into the Spanish Main two years since and was lost."

"Lost?" says I, feeling a tremor of apprehension shake me as I met her
truthful eyes. "Lost, say you--how lost?"

"He and his ship were taken by the Spaniards off Hispaniola."

"Taken?" I repeated, like one sore mazed. "Taken--off--Hispaniola?"
And here, bethinking me of the cruel mockery of it all (should this
indeed be so) black anger seized me. "You lie to me!" I cried. "Ha,
by God, you lie! An there be aught of justice in heaven then Richard
Brandon must be here."

"Who are you?" she questioned, viewing me with the same wide-eyed
stare. "Who are you--so fierce, so young, yet with whitened hair, and
that trembles at the truth? Who are you--speak?"

"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