“If I should try to make you understand, you will be angry, as you were before.”

The wicker chair was close beside the table and she sat down.  And when she spoke she had her hands tight-clasped across her knee and would not look at me.

“Is it—­about—­Sir Francis?”

“It is,” said I, pausing once more upon the brink of full confession.

She waited patiently for me to speak further; waited and let me fight it out in slow pacings up and down before her chair.  Without, the night was calm and still, and through the opened casement came the measured beat of footfalls on the gravel where the outer sentry kept his watch beneath the window.  Within, the single candle battled feebly with the gloom and lighted naught for me save my dear lady’s face, pensive now and saintly sweet as it had been that morning when I had dwelt upon it the while she knew it not.  And in the background stood the sleepy tire-woman, giving no sign of life save now and then a tortured yawn behind her hand.

I think my lady must have known how hard it was for me to speak, for, when the silence had grown overlong, she said, gently:  “I bought these flying minutes of the sentry, Monsieur John.  Will you not use them?”

“If I should say the thing I ought to say, you’ll think the minutes dearly bought, I fear.”

“No, that I shall not, if it will ease your mind.”

“Then tell me why you sent for Father Matthieu.”

The light was dim, as I have said, yet I could see the faint flush spread from neck to cheek.

“You are not of the Church, Monsieur John.  You would not understand if I should tell you.”

“I think I understand without your telling.  You said Sir Francis Falconnet had asked for you.”

“’Twas you who drove me to say it.”

“Because I tried to warn you?”

“Because you would be vengeful when you should have been forgiving.”

“’Twas not revenge, just then, though while I live I shall have ample cause to hate this man.”

“What was it, then?”

“It was love; love for you, and—­and Richard Jennifer.”

She rose, and I could see her eyes ashine for all the half-gloom of the candle-light.

“You are a loyal friend!” she said, and there was that within the words to make me glad, whatever fate the dawn should have in store for me.  “You always think of others first; you think of others now, when—­when death—­Oh, Monsieur John! what can I do for you?  Say quick!  The man is coming to the door!”

“Now I have told you this, there is but one other thing, Margery dear; one little thing that will not let me die in peace.  If I might have ten words with Richard Jennifer—­”

She left me in a fever-flutter of excitement, whipped to the door, and had a word with him who stood without.  I heard the chink of coin, and then she hastened back to me, all eagerness and tremulous impatience.