"Behind the coping to listen when he, her father, was questioning me! And, when I looked up and caught her, she walked out—to show me I might as well confess!"
"She did that?"
"Then tried to cozen me into believing it was not through her," went on the man bitterly, as if speaking to himself. "But I know the lying blood—none better—and when she saw it was no use," he paused and looked up, the marks of the stripes on his face seeming suddenly to burn and grow livid, "she acknowledged it to my face! 'I won't deny.' Those were her words! And when she left the place, she turned around to look back at me—and laugh—"
"You are not mistaken?"
"Perhaps," said the man, a venomous light in his obstinate eyes, "it was all a fancy; or—I am lying!"
Outside, the wind, blowing sharper, whistled about the eaves, beat at the window and shook the blinds angrily; far below, a steady monotone to those other sounds, could be heard the rush and breaking of the surf.
"Why did I cross myself that day on the island, when I saw her—behind you?" Sanchez's taciturnity—the reticence of years—suddenly burst its bonds. "Because she made me think of the former lady of the Mount—the Governor's wife—who betrayed the Seigneur, your father! I promised him to keep the secret—he would have it, for the sake of the lady; but now—to you! Your father was stabbed at the foot of the Mount by the Governor!—"
"Stabbed! By him!"
"It was given out," sourly, "by rogues—again to shield her!"
"But—"