He laughed at the idea, until his chains rattled.
Gilbert's mind was haunted with the other and darker doubt, and he resolved, in this last interview, to secure himself against its recurrence. In such an hour he could trust the prisoner's words.
“Sandy,” he asked, “have you any children?”
“Not to my knowledge; and I'm glad of it.”
“You must know,” Gilbert continued, “what the people say about my birth. My mother is bound from telling me who my father was, and I dare not ask her any questions. Did you ever happen to know her, in your younger days, or can you remember anything that will help me to discover his name?”
The highwayman sat silent, meditating, and Gilbert felt that his heart was beginning to beat painfully fast, as he waited for the answer.
“Yes,” said Sandy, at last, “I did know Mary Potter when I was a boy, and she knowed me, under another name. I may say I liked her, too, in a boy's way, but she was older by three or four years, and never thought o' lookin' at me. But I can't remember anything more; if I was out o' this, I'd soon find out for you!”
He looked up with an eager, questioning glance, which Gilbert totally misunderstood.
“What was your other name?” he asked, in a barely audible voice.
“I dunno as I need tell it,” Sandy answered; “what'd be the good? There's some yet livin', o' the same name, and they wouldn't thank me.”