“Jennie told me in the middle of the night,” continued Dorothy, “when all things seem so vivid and appear so distorted and—­and that terrible blinding jealousy of which I told you came upon me and drove me mad.  I really thought, John, that I should die of the agony.  Oh, John, if you could know the anguish I suffered that night you would pity me; you would not blame me.”

“I do not blame you, Dorothy.”

“No, no, there-” she kissed him softly, and quickly continued:  “I felt that I must separate her from you at all cost.  I would have done murder to accomplish my purpose.  Some demon whispered to me, ‘Tell Queen Elizabeth,’ and—­and oh, John, let me kneel again.”

“No, no, Dorothy, let us talk of something else,” said John, soothingly.

“In one moment, John.  I thought only of the evil that would come to her—­her of Scotland.  I did not think of the trouble I would bring to you, John, until the queen, after asking me if you were my lover, said angrily:  ‘You may soon seek another.’  Then, John, I knew that I had also brought evil upon you.  Then I did suffer.  I tried to reach Rutland, and you know all else that happened on that terrible night.  Now John, you know all—­all.  I have withheld nothing.  I have, confessed all, and I feel that a great weight is taken from my heart.  You will not hate me, will you, John?”

He caught the girl to his breast and tried to turn her face toward his.

“I could not hate you if I would,” he replied, with quick-coming breath, “and God knows I would not.  To love you is the sweetest joy in life,” and he softly kissed the great lustrous eyes till they closed as if in sleep.  Then he fiercely sought the rich red lips, waiting soft and passive for his caresses, while the fair head fell back upon the bend of his elbow in a languorous, half-conscious sweet surrender to his will.  Lord Rutland and I had turned our backs on the shameless pair, and were busily discussing the prospect for the coming season’s crops.

Remember, please, that Dorothy spoke to John of Jennie Faxton.  Her doing so soon bore bitter fruit for me.

Dorothy had been too busy with John to notice any one else, but he soon presented her to his father.  After the old lord had gallantly kissed her hand, she turned scornfully to me and said:—­

“So you fell a victim to her wanton wiles?  If it were not for Madge’s sake, I could wish you might hang.”

“You need not balk your kindly desire for Madge’s sake,” I answered.  “She cares little about my fate.  I fear she will never forgive me.”

“One cannot tell what a woman will do,” Dorothy replied.  “She is apt to make a great fool of herself when it comes to forgiving the man she loves.”

“Men at times have something to forgive,” I retorted, looking with a smile toward John.  The girl made no reply, but took John’s hand and looked at him as if to say, “John, please don’t let this horrid man abuse me.”