Like one in a dream, Rupert Kestyon passed a trembling hand over his damp forehead.
"You—you would—" he stammered.
"Am I not the Earl of Stowmaries?" queried the other simply. "Was I not actually in Paris on that memorable day in April? True, I am not a Romanist by religion, but the travesty of justice which, alas, now goes on under the guidance of Chief Justice Scroggs, will not ask too many questions and will be satisfied as long as it has one more prey to throw to the hungering intolerance of the mob. When I am gone, Cousin, you are the rightful heir to the title and estates which the king's mandate hath just conferred on me. You see how simple it is. It but rests with you to accept or refuse."
"But why—why should you do this?" murmured the other, whose brain seemed almost reeling with this sudden transition from tragic despair to the first glimmer of hope. "Why should you give your life—and—and mayhap die such an awful death?"
"Not for love of you, Coz; you may take an oath on that," said Michael with a humorous twinkle in his eye and a quick smile which softened the former stern expression of his face.
"No, I know that," retorted the other, "'tis because you love her—my wife."
"My head will no longer grace my shoulders when you return with your bride to England, Cousin; you have therefore no cause for jealousy."
There was silence between the two men now. Rupert was of a truth too dazed to understand fully all that his cousin's proposal would mean to him.
"But, by the Mass, man!" he said, "I cannot accept such a sacrifice."