I looked up, breathless. This assurance was at least a comfort.
“What will you do with him?”
“Leave that to me. The question is, what has he done with you?”
How could I not answer him? To win my brother from this vileness—was it not worth the sacrifice of myself? With many tears and falterings, I told him the story of my sojourn in the verderer’s cottage; of the secret chambers, and our life therein; finally, with bitter reluctance, of the shadow that had risen to estrange us, and the bloody confirmation of my fears that was to witness even now on my gown.
He grinned horribly over the revelation.
“That Portlock!” he rejoiced to himself; “that Portlock! A good throat for the hangman! But, for your murderings—I warrant ’tis a fatter bone I’ve to pick with our gentleman.”
He fell into a little musing, scowling fit; then, suddenly dismounting, bade me get into his saddle.
“Where are you going to take me?” I said.
“Where,” he answered, “but to your cottage?”
“O no!” I cried; “not back there!”