"No," he said, but he began to breathe fast, like a runner when he sees the goal.
"'Twas she that came to thy bed the night that thou didst dream thy mother stood nigh thee," Merrylips went on. "Rupert, in very truth, my dear godmother must be thy mother's sister and own aunt to thee."
Rupert clenched and unclenched his hands, and for a moment did not speak.
"Art thou sure?" he said at last. "How dost thou know? Don't jest with me, I pray thee!"
She touched the ring at her neck, and Rupert held out his that was like it.
"Nurse said 'twould be the ring would bring me to mine own!" he muttered.
"There were two rings," Merrylips poured out her story, "wrought by order of his Grace of Barrisden with the crest of the Fernefoulds, two hearts entwined. And one ring was given to his daughter, Lady Sybil, that is my godmother, and here it lieth in mine hand. And the other was given to his daughter, Lady Venetia, that married Captain Edward Lucas and went into Germany, where they both died of a fever, as my godmother hath told me. And her ring she left unto her little son, and thou dost hold it there, Rupert, and surely, by that token, thou art the Lady Venetia's child."
Then Rupert caught her hands in his and kissed them, though he did it roughly, as if he were not used to such courtesy.
"Thou dost believe me, dost thou not?" he kept repeating.
Merrylips was almost as wild as he. She forgot that an hour before she had been tired and hungry and discouraged. Over and over she said how glad she was, how glad Lady Sybil would be, how, when they came to Walsover, Rupert would be welcomed by every one, and would have his rightful name and place, and never again be poor and friendless and unhappy.