As Elinor followed the directions given, she endeavored to frame some fitting sentence with which to begin her interview, but her agitation was too great; she could think of none. Arriving before the door she tapped with her fingers upon the panel.
"Enter, my pretty one," cried a voice. "Thou hast already been announced."
She stepped within the chamber. Winter sat with his back toward the entrance facing a table upon which stood a flagon of wine. As the door closed he turned, and to her horror Elinor saw that he was flushed with strong drink.
"What? Elinor?" exclaimed Winter, in astonishment, rising from the chair with such haste that it was overturned and fell with a clatter to the floor. "I crave thy pardon, Mistress Fawkes," he continued with a bow, mastering his surprise. "Thy sudden entrance caused my tongue to utter the name that ever dwells within my heart. Pray tell me to what happy circumstance am I indebted for the honor of this visit? I would know the same that I may render homage to it."
Elinor stood speechless, filled with abhorrence and dread. All her bravery could scarce keep her from flying out of the room. She endeavored to fix her mind on the purpose which had brought her here, and so find courage. At last desperation gave her voice and she began hurriedly:
"I know that thou and others were at my father's house this night. I was not asleep as ye all supposed, and have come to beg, to beseech, pray, that my father be released from this terrible treason which hath been talked of. Thou wert the only one to whom I could turn for aid—I trust to thy goodness, to thy noble nature;—for the love of God tell me not that I come in vain. See—see," she cried hysterically, her self control gone and falling upon her knees. "I kneel before thee to crave this boon."
At her first words Winter started as if a pike had been thrust into his side. On his face was written blank astonishment, which expression, as she proceeded, gave way to one of abject fear. It would have been difficult to say which of the two was the more agitated. He dashed a hand to his brow as if to drive away the fumes of liquor which had mounted to his brain; looked at the kneeling figure; gazed on the tapers burning upon the table; and tried to form some words of reply. At last, with an effort at composure, and endeavoring to force a laugh past his dry lips, he said:
"What silly tale is this thou utterest. I have not been——"
"Nay," the girl broke in wildly, "'tis useless for thee to say so. My eyes and ears did not deceive me. Would to heaven they had and it were only some mad dream which fills my brain."
"Then—then—thou hast played the spy," hissed Winter, in sudden anger born of drink and fear. "Dost know to what thou hast listened? Has aught of it passed thy lips? Speak!" he cried furiously, seizing the girl's arm and glaring at her in drunken rage. "Nay; then thou didst not, and 'tis well; for if thy lips had breathed one word these hands of mine would choke from out thy body its sweet breath." He relinquished his hold, and turning toward the table hurriedly drained a cup of wine.