"I must not rejoice too soon, or I may perish. And yet—speak. This is a woman—the woman of all women!"
"'Tis true, your honour's goodness. Lovey Lee, begging your pardon; her as you thought you'd properly knocked 'pon the head."
"An' she'm wrapped up in fifty-pound notes, your honour," said Bickford, "an' I hope your honour won't let her keep 'em from two honest men, for 'tis stolen money, an' her was going to——"
"Peace!" thundered Malherb. "Take yourselves and your buzzing behind me."
He had not removed his eyes from Lovey Lee's face. His mind and soul were there.
Now he approached her and spoke gently.
"Tell me," he said. "Let me hear your voice. Do not fear. Are you Lovey Lee—she whom I struck down and left for dead a thousand years ago on Cater's Beam?"
Lovey calculated the chances. She was broken now, for at last the Malherb amphora lay in the power of its rightful owner. Unconquerable hate gleamed in her eyes, but her voice sounded meek and mild.
"A cruel blow, Malherb, an' me so old. Yet I agged 'e to it. Forgive my evil tongue. I'm a woman still, for all my wickedness. I'll kneel to 'e; I'll pray to 'e; I'll lick thy boots. I've paid for my sins, God knows that; don't send me to the gallows, after all these days."
"You are Lovey Lee?"