"Now God have mercy on us both!" I groaned. "Forgive me, Dick, if you can; I was as mad as any Bedlamite. If I have any claim on her, 'tis not of her good will, you may be sure. You have the baronet to fear—not me."
He shook his head and pointed to the parchment—to the line in French.
"Francis Falconnet was under the same roof with her—or at least in easy call—when she wrote that, Jack. He is no longer my rival—nor yours."
His word set me thinking, and I would fall to picking out the strands that jealous wrath had woven for me into the web of happenings. Setting aside the story brought by Ephraim Yeates, there was no certain proof that she had ever favored the Englishman; nay, more, till I had come to be madly jealous of Falconnet, I had made sure that Jennifer was the favored one.
At this, as one sees a landscape struck out clear and vivid by the lightning's flash, I saw the true meaning of the word the hunter had brought—saw it and went upon my knees to grope blindly for the sword I had let fall when Dick had found the arrow.
"What is it, Jack?" he asked, gently.
"My sword!" I gasped. "We should have been half-way there by this. Yeates was misled. 'Tis Falconnet she fears. She was at bay—hark you, at bay and fair desperate. That word of hers to the baronet was her poor pitiful defiance built on her trust in us, and we have lain here—"
He found the sword and thrust it into my hand, crying:
"Come on! You can strew the dust and ashes on me later. You said you loved her the better, and I do believe it now, Jack! You trusted her, as I did not. We'll fight as one man to cut her out of this coil, whatever it may be; and after that is done I'll make my bow and leave you a fair field."
"Nay, nay; that you shall not, Dick," I began; but he was half-way through the narrow passage to the open, trailing the ancient broadsword and the bearskin from his bed; and I was fain to follow quickly, leaving the protest all unfinished.