“Master,” countered Martin imperturbably, “why did you hit me in the pit of the stomach with your elbow?”
“To keep your tongue quiet.”
“And what is the name of my sword?”
“Silence.”
“Well, then, I dropped the sword ‘Silence’ for the same reason. I hope it hasn’t hurt you much, but if it did I can’t help it.”
Foy wheeled round. “What do you mean, Martin?”
“I mean,” answered the great man with energy, “that you have no right to tell what became of that paper which Mother Martha gave us.”
“Why not? I have faith in my brother.”
“Very likely, master, but that isn’t the point. We carry a great secret, and this secret is a trust, a dangerous trust; it would be wrong to lay its burden upon the shoulders of other folk. What people don’t know they can’t tell, master.”
Foy still stared at him, half in question, half in anger, but Martin made no further reply in words. Only he went through certain curious motions, motions as of a man winding slowly and laboriously at something like a pump wheel. Foy’s lips turned pale.