He made a motion of passion and despair. His voice was almost shrill when he spoke. “Till that divorce comes, the daughter of the Ry of Rys is mine!” he cried sharply. “I will not give my wife to a Gorgio thief. His hands shall not caress her, his eyes shall not feed upon her—”
“His eyes will not feed upon her,” interrupted the old man, “So cease the prattle which can alter nothing. Begone.”
For a moment Jethro Fawe stood like one who did not understand what was said to him, but suddenly a look of triumph and malice came into his face, and his eyes lighted with a reckless fire. He threw back his head, and laughed with a strange, offensive softness. Then, waving a hand to the window from which Fleda had gone, he swung his cap on his head and plunged into the trees.
A moment afterwards his voice came back exultingly, through the morning air:
“But a Gorgio sleeps ‘neath the greenwood tree
He’ll broach my tan no more:
And my love, she sleeps afar from me
But near to the churchyard door.”
As the old man turned heavily towards the house, and opened the outer door, Fleda met him.
“What did you mean when you said that Ingolby’s eyes would not feed upon me?” she asked in a low tone of fear.
A look of compassion came into the old man’s face. He took her hand.
“Come and I will tell you,” he said.