“Ladye” replied the yeoman, “I’m a rough, blunt soldier—I know little of courtly manners, but so help me St. Withold, I would peril—I would sacrifice my life, to serve thee and—Lord Adrian—”
“Adrian? What knowest thou of Adrian? For heaven’s sake speak.” Her very soul glanced from her eyes as she continued.—“Oh, God! thou surely wilt not say that he—Adrian—is—is—The Murderer?”
“St. Withold!” muttered Robin, “but I have got myself into a nice predicament. Ladye I would say no such falsehood.”
“It is a falsehood then?—Thanks—Holy Mary, from my soul, unfeigned thanks?”
“It is not Adrian: but Ladye—heaven help thee to bear it—the murderer is one who is mayhap as beloved of thee, as is Lord Adrian.”
“One as beloved?” murmured Annabel—“surely there is no one as beloved as Adrian, no one save my father. Thou triflest with me, Robin.”
“Nay Ladye I trifle not—again I say it is the one who is as dear to thee as Lord Adrian.”
One word came from the maiden’s lips.
“My Father—” she shrieked, as if some awful thought had riven her brain.
She said never a word more, but her bosom which a moment past rose and fell convulsively, now became stilled; the excited flush of her cheeks died away into an ashy paleness, her lip lost its eager expression, her eyelids closed stiffly, and she fell heavily as a corse from her seat.