“I take it,” answered Seymour.
Hugh leaned a little forward with his clinched hands resting on the table, and listened, not to them, but to Philip Bellasis.
“Pshaw! how would you have it?” the scornful voice went on. “’Tis bad blood there. Now Alan Gwyeth—”
Hugh swung round on his heel; the candles dazzled up and down before him, but he could make out Bellasis, resting his chin on one hand as he sat, and speaking straight at him: “Alan Gwyeth, you’ll remember, was but a broken German cutthroat, who lost his commission here for cowardice—”
“Sit down, Hugh!” Allestree cried.
Hugh could feel Allestree’s grasp tighten on his arm, but, shaking him off, he walked across to the table where Bellasis sat. The room was very still, and in the silence his voice sounded husky and low. “You spoke of Alan Gwyeth,” he began slowly. “When you call him a coward, I tell you you lie in your throat!”
Then he leaned across the table and smote Bellasis on the mouth.
CHAPTER XIII
IN THE FIELDS TOWARD OSNEY ABBEY
It was dark in the passage outside the door, and Hugh fumbled stupidly to find the latch. Inside two patches of moonlight, checkered like the diamond panes of the windows, lay on the floor. Hugh stood staring at them dully a moment before he spoke, “Dick.”
“Well?” came from the black corner where the bed stood; it was Strangwayes’ assertion that he always slept with one eye and one ear alert.