Editha would know, of course, but no one else, and it would be vastly curious anon to see what lady Sue would do.

Therefore, Sir Marmaduke was chiefly conscious of Editha’s presence, and then only of Sue.

“Some old woman’s folly,” he now said roughly, in response to Squire Boatfield’s mute inquiry, “awhile ago she identified the clothes as having belonged to the foreign prince.”

“Aye, the clothes, de Chavasse,” murmured the squire meditatively, “the clothes, but not the man ... and ’twas you yourself who just now....”

“Master Lambert should know his own brother,” here came in a suppressed murmur from one or two of the men, who respectful before the quality, had now become too excited to keep altogether silent.

“Of course I know my brother,” retorted Richard Lambert boldly, “and can but curse mine own cowardice in not defending him ere this.”

“What more lies are we to hear?” sneered de Chavasse, “surely, Boatfield, this stupid scene hath lasted long enough.”

“Put my knowledge to the test, sir,” rejoined Lambert.  “My brother’s arm was scarred by a deep cut from shoulder to elbow, caused by the fall of a sharp-bladed ax—­’twas the right arm ... will you see, Sir Marmaduke, or will you allow me to lay bare the right arm of this man ... to see if I had lied? ...”

Squire Boatfield, conquering his reluctance, had approached nearer to the coffin; he, too, lifted the dead man’s arm, as the old woman had done just now, and he gazed down meditatively at the hand, which though shapely, was obviously rough and toil-worn.  Then, with a firm and deliberate gesture, he undid the sleeve of the doublet and pushed it back, baring the arm up to the shoulder.

He looked at the lifeless flesh for a moment, there where a deep and long scar stood out plainly between the elbow and shoulder like the veining in a block of marble.  Then he pulled the sleeve down again.

“Neither you, nor Mistress Lambert have lied, master,” he said simply.  “’Tis Adam Lambert who lies here ... murdered ... and if that be so,” he continued firmly, “then the man who put these clothes upon the body of the smith is his murderer ... the foreigner who called himself Prince Amede d’Orleans.”

“The husband of Lady Sue Aldmarshe,” quoth Sir Marmaduke, breaking into a loud laugh.

The rain had momentarily ceased, although the gale, promising further havoc, still continued that mournful swaying of the dead branches of the trees.  But a gentle drip-drip had replaced that incessant patter.  The humid atmosphere had long ago penetrated through rough shirts and worsted breeches, causing the spectators of this weird tragedy to shiver with the cold.

The shades of evening had begun to gather in.  It were useless now to attempt to reach Minster before nightfall:  nor presumably would the old Quakeress thus have parted from the dead body of her lad.