“I thought so. Shame rides post. Now then, Captain Leigh, listen to me. I, being a plain man and a burgher, and one that never drew iron in my life except to mend a pen, ask you, being a gentleman and a captain and a man of honor, with a weapon to your side, and harness to your back—what would you do in my place?”
“Humph!” said Amyas, “that would very much depend on whether 'my place' was my own fault or not.”
“And what if it were, sir? What if all that the charitable folks of Bideford—(Heaven reward them for their tender mercies!)—have been telling you in the last hour be true, sir,—true! and yet not half the truth?”
Amyas gave a start.
“Ah, you shrink from me! Of course a man is too righteous to forgive those who repent, though God is not.”
“God knows, sir—”
“Yes, sir, God does know—all; and you shall know a little—as much as I can tell—or you understand. Come upstairs with me, sir, as you'll drink no more; I have a liking for you. I have watched you from your boyhood, and I can trust you, and I'll show you what I never showed to mortal man but one.”
And, taking up a candle, he led the way upstairs, while Amyas followed wondering.
He stopped at a door, and unlocked it.
“There, come in. Those shutters have not been opened since she—” and the old man was silent.