‘Such an invitation,’ answered Brion, ‘as the fowler lures his quarry withal. For my manners, not being framed on falsehood and cozenage, they were not made to please you.’
His boldness seemed to strike a very stillness in the room, so tense that one could hear, as it were, the Captain’s skin pricking. Leicester’s expression did not change or move, but his nostrils flickered, and sudden lamps seemed turned up in his eyes.
‘So?’ he said softly: ‘a spirited retort; yet wise, in the circumstances?—Well, we’ll question. Dost know me—who I am?’
‘Too well, indeed.’
‘Too well, yet not well enough, I’ll venture, or some thought of peril might come to sing in you a milder note.’
‘I have that thought,’ said Brion. ‘I should be a fool not to.’
‘Ah! You have that thought—and, mayhap, the guilty conscience that fathered it?’
‘I miss your meaning.’
‘I think not. Confess your design; make a clean breast of it; and perchance—I’ll not say; but certain considerations may weigh with me—your peril may be less.’
‘Will you tell me my design? I have known of none, but to avoid where I could the very thought and sight of you.’