‘And I’ll follow betimes.’
‘Uncle?’
‘Well, boy?’
‘Is not Master Clerivault mad?’
‘How, mad?’ The black eyes conned him whimsically.
‘I know not,’ answered Brion. ‘His speech is so strange; and when I misdoubted his English blood, he skipped and sweat with fury.’
Bagott nodded, smiling.
‘He did? He would, child: ’tis to touch him on the quick. Whatever hybrid he, call him but out of his imagined birthright, and you put a match to tow. England is not only all the world, but all the stars and all the heavens to him. But, mad?’—the humour left his face; his brows bent down—‘If madness is in devotion, then is he mad; if madness is in incorruptible fidelity, then is he mad. And so, perchance, would Reason call him, but not I his master, who saved him from the gallows.’
Brion’s eyes and red lips opened together.
‘O, how?’ he said. ‘Poor Clerivault.’