'Twas a most practical little thing she did that saved me from falling headlong into this last ditch of dishonor. Twisting the letter into a spill she stood on tiptoe to light it at one of the candles, saying: "'Twas a foolish thing to put on paper, and might well hang the writer in such times as these. He says you are a king's man and well known to him, and you are neither." But when the letter was a crisp of blackened paper-ash she turned upon me, and once again the changeful eyes were cold and her words were stranger-formal.
"What is it you would have me do, Captain Ireton?"
"Nothing," I made haste to say; "nothing save to believe that I came here unwittingly—and to let me go."
"Where will you go? The town is alive with those who would—who would—"
"Who would show me scant mercy, you would say. True; and yet I came hither—to the town, I mean—of my own free will."
Her mood changed in the pivoting fraction of an instant, and now the beautiful eyes were alight and warm and pleadingly eloquent.
"Oh, why did you come? Are you—are you what they said you were?"
"A spy? If I am, you would scarce expect me to confess it, even to you."
"'Tis dishonorable—most dishonorable!" she cried. "I could respect a brave soldier enemy; but a spy—"
There was a clattering of hoofs in the street and a jingle of sword-scabbards on the door-stone. I wheeled to face the newcomers, determined now to front it boldly as a desperate man at bay. But before the fumbling hands without could find the door-knob Margery was beside me, all a-flutter in a trembling-fit of excitement.