“Madam,” said Gro, “these that I told thee of be the company of mine own silent thoughts. And, but for mine horse, this is all the company that came hither with me.”
“Alone?” said she. “And sleep so securely in thine enemies’ country? That showed a strange confidence.”
“Not enemies, if I may,” said he.
But she cried, “And thou Lord Gro of Witchland?”
“That one sickened long since,” he answered, “of a mortal sickness; and ’tis now a day and a night since he is dead thereof.”
“What art thou, then?” said she.
He answered, “If your grace would so receive me, Lord Gro of Demonland.”
“A very practised turncoat,” said she. “Belike they also are wearied of thee and thy ways. Alas,” she said in an altered voice, “thy gentle pardon! when doubtless it was for thy generous deeds to me-ward they fell out with thee, when thou didst so nobly befriend me.”
“I will tell your highness,” answered he, “the pure truth. Never stood matters better ’twixt me and all of them than when yesternight I resolved to leave them.”
The Lady Mevrian was silent, a cloud in her face. Then, “I am alone,” she said. “Therefore think it not little-hearted in me, nor forgetful of past benefits, if I will be further certified of thee ere I suffer thee to rise. Swear to me thou wilt not betray me.”