“I am Sir George Keith, at your service, and at that of His Majesty,” he said, smiling and bowing low.
“Well, then, Sir George Keith, what is to prevent me from destroying this warrant? From casting it into the fire, thus----?”
With a quick movement I tossed the parchment into the blazing pile of logs on the hearth, Willis having kindled them, though there was little need of warmth.
The sheepskin burned in a sudden puff of flame, but Sir George never turned his head to see what became of it.
“It was but a copy,” he said.
“Then what is to prevent me from killing you?” was my next question.
“Would one tainted with treason, add to his crimes and attack the King’s messenger? Or if he dared, that same bearer of the royal warrant might have somewhat to say touching on the killing. I am no schoolboy to be frightened by words!”
I knew he spoke the truth, and I sat down again.
“Perchance,” went on Sir George, “I may weary you with the tale, but I will relate it, and if I tire you I pray your pardon.”
Then while the shadows grew long outside, and the darkness settled deeper and deeper over the earth, I listened as one not fully awake, who hears a voice afar off.