do not think I am the man to suffer myself to be sent
to the gallows upon such paltry evidence as satisfies that lady. If any
accuser comes to bleat of a trail of blood reaching to my door, and of
certain words I spoke yesterday in anger, I will take my trial--but it
shall be trial by battle upon the body of my accuser. That is my right,
and I will have every ounce of it. Do you doubt how God will pronounce?
I call upon him solemnly to pronounce between me and such an one. If I
am guilty of this thing may He wither my arm when I enter the lists."

"Myself I will accuse you," came Rosamund's dull voice. "And if you
will, you may claim your rights against me and butcher me as you
butchered him."

"God forgive you, Rosamund!" said Sir Oliver, and went out.

He returned home with hell in his heart. He knew not what the future
might hold in store for him; but such was his resentment against
Rosamund that there was no room in his bosom for despair. They should
not hang him. He would fight them tooth and claw, and yet Lionel should
not suffer. He would take care of that. And then the thought of Lionel
changed his mood a little. How easily could he have shattered their
accusation, how easily have brought her to her proud knees imploring
pardon of him! By a word he could have done it, yet he feared lest that
word must jeopardize his brother.

In the calm, still watches of that night, as he lay sleepless upon his
bed and saw things without heat, there crept a change into his
mental attitude. He reviewed all the evidence that had led her to her
conclusions, and he was forced to confess that she was in some measure
justified of them. If she had wronged him, he had wronged her yet more.
For years she had listened to all the poisonous things that were said
of him by his enemies--and his arrogance had made him not a few. She had
disregarded all because she loved him; her relations with her brother
had become strained on that account, yet now, all this returned to crush
her; repentance played its part in her cruel belief that it was by his
hand Peter Godolphin had fallen. It must almost seem to her that in a
sense she had been a party to his murder by the headstrong course to
which she had kept in loving the man her brother hated.

He saw it now, and was more merciful in judging her. She had been more
than human if she had not felt as he now saw that she must feel, and
since reactions are to be measured by the mental exaltations fr