LITMIR.BIZ

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he said, solemnly, looking out at her from under his dark brows, “before God, I mean you no harm!” He said it as though it were a sacrament. “In half an hour or less I shall be gone from this room, from your life forever. But you must hear what I have to say.” He paused. “No, no, madame. It is not that which you suppose – you need have no fear of me. It is not that – I swear it!”

      Mistress Barbara moved uneasily.

      “I pray that you will be seated, madame. No? As you please. What I have to say is not short. Shall I begin?”

      “’Twere sooner over,” she said, hoarsely.

      He bowed politely. “I will endeavor to be brief. Many years ago, your great-grandfather went to Florida with the expedition of Jean Ribault. Perhaps you have been told of the massacre by the Spanish and how the Seigneur de Bresac escaped to France? Merci! You also doubtless know his and your grandfather’s great hatred of the Spanish people as the result of this massacre? Eh bien. Your grandfather told his three daughters – one of whom was your mother – that if one of them married a Spaniard he would refuse her a part of his fortune and deny her as a child of his – ”

      “I pray you, monsieur – ”

      “I crave your patience. Lorance, your mother, married Monsieur Clerke, and Julie, the younger sister, married Sir George Maltby. That is well known. The elder sister was Eloise.” His voice fell, and the name was spoken with all the soft tenderness of the name itself. “Perhaps you do not know, madame, that she, too, was married – ”

      “There was a mystery,” she muttered. “I heard – ” Then she stopped.

      “Madame heard?” he asked, politely. But she was silent again.

      “Eloise was married,” he continued, “while visiting at the château of the Duc de Nemours, near Paris, to Don Luis d’Añasco, who was a Spaniard. Fearing her father’s wrath and disinheritance, this unfortunate woman concealed the facts of this marriage, the record of which was the acknowledgment of the priest who married them and the statements of a nurse and another witness who had accompanied her to Amiens, where in or about the year 1635 she gave birth to a son – ”

      If Mistress Clerke had allowed herself to relax a little before, her interest now had dominated all feeling of fear and suspense. She leaned a little forward, breathless, her hand upon the chair before her, her eyes fixed upon the lips of the Frenchman, who spoke slowly, concisely, and held her with an almost irresistible fascination.

      “The saddest part of the story is to come, madame. The mother was grievously ill – she suffered besides all the pangs of solitude at a time when a woman needs consolation and sympathy the most. Her mother had died, her husband was worse than useless, and she feared to let her father know the truth, lest his stern and pitiless nature would wreak some terrible vengeance upon the Spanish husband, whom she still loved, in spite of the fact that he had married her for her fortune and not for herself. She had almost made up her mind to tell her father all when – she died.” He paused a moment to give her the full import of his words. And then, looking at her steadily and somewhat sternly, “Her son, René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac, is still alive.”

      Mistress Barbara stood looking at him. He met the look unflinchingly. At last her eyes fell. When she lifted them she did so suddenly and drew herself up at the same time, all instinct with doubt and suspicion of this man, who had first insulted, then injured her, and was now seeking to rob her of her birthright.

      “And you?” she asked, bitterly, her scorn giving wings to her fear. “And you? Can I believe you?”

      It was as though she had expressed her thought in words. Monsieur Mornay felt the thrust. But where the other night it could wound him mortally, to-day it glanced harmlessly aside. He still looked calmly at her, and the least perceptible touch of irony played at the corners of his lips.

      She mistook the smile for effrontery – for the mere impudence of a man without caste who recks nothing for God or man. She flung her back towards him with a sudden gesture and turned towards the window.

      “You lie,” she said, contemptuously.

      Monsieur Mornay knit his brows, and his eyes followed her angrily, but he did not even take a step towards her. His voice was as low as before when he spoke.

      “Madame has a certain skill at hatred,” he said. “Insults fall as readily from her lips as the petals from a flower.” He paused. “But they do not smell so sweet. I do not lie, madame,” he said, with a gesture as though to brush the insult aside. When he raised his voice it was with a tone and inflection of command which surprised and affrighted her. She turned in alarm, but he had not moved from his position near the door.

      “Hear me you shall, madame. Listen.” And rapidly, forcefully, masterfully even, he told the story of the fate of the young D’Añasco, called Ruiz, the perfidy of the drunken father in sending him away upon the ship Castillano, and the bargain by which his inheritance had been sold. She heard him through, because she could not help it, but as he proceeded, and the names of her father, Sir Wilfred Clerke, and Sir Henry Heywood were mentioned, she arose to her full height, and with magnificent disdain threw fear to the winds and said, coldly:

      “Stop! I have heard enough.” And with reckless mockery, “You, monsieur, I presume, are René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac?”

      Monsieur Mornay bowed.

      The door of the room opened suddenly and Captain Ferrers entered. A look of bewilderment was on his features as he glanced at Mistress Clerke.

      “Why, Barbara – these men without – What – ?” Monsieur Mornay had turned his head, and the flowing curls no longer hid his countenance.

      “I was expecting you, Capitaine Ferraire,” said the Frenchman.

      Ferrers stepped back a pace or two, astonishment and consternation written upon his features. Had Sir Henry Heywood come back to life, the Captain could not have been put into a greater quandary. He looked at the Frenchman and then at Mistress Clerke for the solution of the enigma. But Mistress Barbara had sunk upon the couch in an agony of fear. A moment before she had prayed for this interruption. Now that it had come she was in a terror as to its consequences. She made no reply, but looked at the two men who stood a few feet apart with lowering looks – the Englishman flushed red with anger, the Frenchman cool, impassive, dangerous.

      Ferrers spoke first. He stepped a pace or two towards the Frenchman, his brow gathered, his shoulders forward, menace in every line of his figure.

      “You have dared to force your way into this house?”

      The elbow was bent and the fist was clinched, and an exclamation burst from Mistress Barbara, who was gazing horror-struck at the impending brutality. But the Frenchman did not move. The only sign of anything unusual in his appearance was the look in his eyes, which met those of the Englishman with an angry glitter of defiance. If Ferrers had meant personal violence to the Frenchman, he did not carry out his intentions. He cast his eyes for a moment in the direction of Mistress Barbara, and then, drawing back again with a muttered exclamation, made straight for the door. Before he could place his hand upon the knob Mornay interposed.

      “One moment, Ferraire. My men were told to let you in —not to let you out.” And as Ferrers paused a moment, “Have patience, Monsieur le Capitaine. Presently I will leave madame and you; but first you must listen.” Ferrers had grown white with rage, and his hand had flown to his sword hilt. He looked at the quiet figure of the Frenchman and at Mistress Barbara, whose eyes were staring at him widely. He bit his lip in chagrin, and then struggled to control his voice.

      “Your reckoning is not far distant, Monsieur Mornay,” he said, hoarsely. “If there is justice in England, you shall hang this day week.”

      CHAPTER V

      INDECISION

      Mornay waited while the Englishman smothered his rage. Then, with a sudden motion, he brushed his kerchief across his temples, as though to wipe the clouds from his forehead.

      “If madame will but bear

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