“Shall I tell him the whole truth?” inquired Lyon Berners of himself. “I will sound him first,” he concluded. Then speaking up, he said:
“Well, you cannot blame people for being cautious, after that horrible murder at Black Hall.”
“That’s so too,” admitted the farmer.
“And yet,” added Mr. Berners, “they do say that it was no robber that did that murder, but the lady of the house who did it.”
“The lady of the house!” indignantly echoed the farmer, to Lyon’s great astonishment. “Don’t you go to say that; for if you do, devil burn me if I don’t knock you down with the butt end of my gun!”
“I do not say it. I only tell you what other people say.”
“They lie! the hounds! And I wish I could meet any of them venomous backbiters face to face. Satan fly away with me if I wouldn’t tear their false tongues out of their throats, and throw them to the dogs! You don’t mean to say you believe she did it?” fiercely demanded Sybil’s rough champion.
“No; Heaven knows I do not! I believe her to be as guiltless as an angel.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that! I don’t want to pitch into an unarmed man, but I should a’ been strongly tempted to ’a done it if you’d said anything else.”
“You know this injured lady, then?”