"Why," I said, with a laugh. "It seems I must condone wounds and abduction and all."
"'Tis on me the brunt will fall—the shame and scandal," she urged, and, looking in her pretty face, I could resist no longer, for I'll swear she was genuine, and had been misled by that muckrake.
"I will go," says I, and then of a sudden remembered. "But how am I to escape?" says I.
"By the window," she said, pointing to it with animation.
"Why, to be sure," says I, slowly, for I was taken with a notion, "but there is this gentleman who is my guard."
"Oh!" says she, archly, "I think your sword is better than his, and he will not stay you."
"True," says I, "but 'tis best to be prudent and to avoid Sir Philip's suspicions. He must have some marks of a struggle. Either I must leave him with a wound, or senseless, or gagged and bound ... or maybe suspicion will come to rest on you, madam."
Her brows were bent in a little frown. "That is true," she said, and turned to York, whose face for the first time, as I could see, wore a look of discomposure.
"He must be bound and gagged," says I, shaking my head.