"Aye!" replied His Grace. "That's just the Word. An Explanation. For I, my Lord, as your Father's Friend, will ask You this: how is it that while Teammouth, Campsfield and so many of your Associates perished upon the Scaffold, You alone, of those implicated in that infamous Plot, did obtain an unconditional Pardon?"
Lord Stour stepped back as if he had been hit in the face. Boundless Astonishment was expressed in the Gaze which he fixed upon the General, as well as wrathful indignation.
"My Lord!" he exclaimed, "that Question is an insult!"
"Make me swallow mine own Words," retorted His Grace imperturbably, "by giving me a straight Answer."
"Mine Answer must be straight," rejoined Lord Stour firmly, "since it is based on Truth. I do not know."
The Duke shrugged his Shoulders, and there came a sarcastic laugh from more than one of the Gentlemen there.
"I give your Lordship my Word of Honour," Lord Stour insisted haughtily. Then, as His Grace remained silent, with those deep-set eyes of his fixed searchingly upon the young Man, the latter added vehemently: "Is then mine Honour in question?"
Whereupon Mr. Betterton, who hitherto had remained silent, interposed very quietly:
"The honour of some Gentlemen, my Lord, is like the Manifestation of Ghosts—much talked of ... but always difficult to prove!"
You know his Voice, dear Mistress, and that subtle carrying Power which it has, although he never seems to raise it. After he had spoken You could have heard the stirring of every little twig in the trees above us, for no one said another Word for a moment or two. We all stood there, a compact little Group: Lord Stour facing the Duke of Albemarle and Mr. Betterton standing a step or two behind His Grace, his fine, expressive Face set in a mask of cruel Irony. Sir William Davenant and the other Gentlemen had closed in around those three. They must have felt that some strange Storm of Passions was brewing, and instinctively they tried to hide its lowering Clouds from public gaze.