‘Hold your tongue!’ cried Devereux, so fiercely, that she thought him half wild; ’do you think ’tis a pin’s point to me which of you first coined or uttered the lie?  Listen to me; I’m a desperate man, and I’ll take a course with you both you’ll not like, unless you go to-morrow and see Dr. Walsingham yourself, and tell him the whole truth—­yes, the truth—­what the devil do I care?—­speak that, and make the most of it.  But tell him plainly that your story about my having promised to marry you—­do you hear—­was a lie, from first to last—­a lie—­a lie—­without so much as a grain of truth mixed up in it.  All a cursed—­devil’s—­woman’s invention.  Now, mind ye, Miss Nan, if you don’t, I’ll bring you and your mother into court, or I’ll have the truth out of you.’

’But there’s no need to threaten, sure, you know, Masther Richard, I’d do anything for you—­I would.  I’d beg, or I’d rob, or I’d die for you, Masther Richard; and whatever you bid me, your poor wild Nan ‘ill do.’

Devereux was touched, the tears were streaming down her pale cheeks, and she was shivering.

‘You’re cold, Nan; where’s your cloak and riding hood?’ he said, gently.

‘I had to part them, Masther Richard.’

‘You want money, Nan,’ he said, and his heart smote him.

’I’m not cold when I’m near you, Masther Richard.  I’d wait the whole night long for a chance of seeing you; but oh! ho—­(she was crying as if her heart would break, looking in his face, and with her hands just a little stretched towards him), oh, Masther Richard, I’m nothing to you now—­your poor wild Nan!’

Poor thing!  Her mother had not given her the best education.  I believe she was a bit of a thief, and she could tell fibs with fluency and precision.  The woman was a sinner; but her wild, strong affections were true, and her heart was not in pelf.

‘Now, don’t cry—­where’s the good of crying—­listen to me,’ said Devereux.

‘Sure I heerd you were sick, last week, Masther Richard,’ she went on, not heeding, and with her cold fingers just touching his arm timidly—­and the moon glittered on the tears that streamed down her poor imploring cheeks—­’an’ I’d like to be caring you; an’ I think you look bad, Masther Richard.’

’No, Nan—­I tell you, no—­I’m very well, only poor, just now, Nan, or you should not want.’

’Sure I know, Masther Richard:  it is not that.  I know you’d be good to me if you had it:  and it does not trouble me.’

‘But see, Nan, you must speak to your friends, and say—­’

’Sorra a friend I have—­sorra a friend, Masther Richard; and I did not spake to the priest this year or more, and I darn’t go near him,’ said the poor Palmerstown lass that was once so merry.

’Why won’t you listen to me, child?  I won’t have you this way.  You must have your cloak and hood.  ’Tis very cold; and, by Heavens, Nan, you shall never want while I have a guinea.  But you see I’m poor now, curse it—­I’m poor—­I’m sorry, Nan, and I have only this one about me.’