“O Stephen! have you some children?—how many?”
“Ay, two lads and three lasses. How many have you?”
“We’re not so well off as you; we have only two maids. Why, Stephen, I’d forgot you were married. I must come and see your wife. But I never heard whom you did marry: was she a stranger?”
Poor Stephen was sorely puzzled what to say. On the one hand, he thought Leuesa might safely be trusted; and as Ermine had already suffered the sentence passed upon her, and the entire circumstances were forgotten by most people, it seemed as if the confession of facts might be attended by no danger. Yet he could not know with certainty that either of his old acquaintances was incorruptibly trustworthy; and if the priests came to know that one of their victims had survived the ordeal, what might they not do, in hatred and revenge? A moment’s reflection, and an ejaculatory prayer, decided him to trust Leuesa. She must find out the truth if she came to see Ermine.
“No,” he said slowly; “she was not a stranger.”
“Why, who could it be?” responded Leuesa. “Nobody went away when you did.”
“But somebody went away before I did. Leuesa, I think you are not the woman who would do an old friend an ill turn?”
“Indeed, I would not, Stephen,” said she warmly. “If there be any secret, you may trust me, and my husband too; we would not harm you or yours for the world.”
“I believe I may,” returned Stephen. “My cousin Derette knows, but don’t name it to any one else. My wife is—Ermine.”
“Stephen! You don’t mean it? Well, I am glad to know she got safe away! But how did you get hold of her?”