“Silence, dog!” said Will Cary, whose blood was up, and followed his words with a blow on the monk's mouth, which silenced him effectually.
“Don't be afraid, good woman, but speak English. We are all English here, and Protestants too. Tell us what they have done for you.”
“Another trap! another trap!” cried she, in a strong Devonshire accent. “You be no English! You want to make me lie again, and then torment me. Oh! wretched, wretched that I am!” cried she, bursting into tears. “Whom should I trust? Not myself: no, nor God; for I have denied Him! O Lord! O Lord!”
Amyas stood silent with fear and horror; some instinct told him that he was on the point of hearing news for which he feared to ask. But Jack spoke—
“My dear soul! my dear soul! don't you be afraid; and the Lord will stand by you, if you will but tell the truth. We are all Englishmen, and men of Devon, as you seem to be by your speech; and this ship is ours; and the pope himself sha'n't touch you.”
“Devon?” she said doubtingly; “Devon! Whence, then?”
“Bideford men. This is Mr. Will Cary, to Clovelly. If you are a Devon woman, you've heard tell of the Carys, to be sure.”
The woman made a rush forward, and threw her fettered arms round Will's neck,—
“Oh, Mr. Cary, my dear life! Mr. Cary! and so you be! Oh, dear soul alive! but you're burnt so brown, and I be 'most blind with misery. Oh, who ever sent you here, my dear Mr. Will, then, to save a poor wretch from the pit?”
“Who on earth are you?”