“Ah! of force. I conceive it fully. Your mother, good daughter?”
“My mother spake not of the matter. She witteth not to read, and therefore knew not the book.”
“Certes,” said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. Lord Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed at the Abbot’s extreme suavity.
“You had this book from a friend, methinks?” resumed the Abbot.
“I cannot tell you, father, whence I had it,” was Margery’s firm reply.
The Abbot looked surprised.
“Did our brother Rous lend it you?” he asked, his manner losing a small portion of its extraordinary softness.
“Nay.”
“Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?”
Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very dangerous man. How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions and denials which would afterwards stand him in good stead! How came he, too, to know so much about her friends? Had he been questioning Lord Marnell? Margery’s breath came short and fast, and she trembled exceedingly. She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, when the Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush in hearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her the book, but one who was concerned in the transaction. The Abbot saw the blush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice of it.