"To be a spy!"
"Tudieu! as we used to say at Boulogne," exclaimed Shelly furiously; "do not repeat that hateful word!—well?"
"Is to deserve the gallows."
"You are deceived, sir,—I tell you, deceived. I am no spy, by all that is sacred on earth!" replied Shelly hoarsely; for he was striving to master his pride and passion. "Remember," he added, involuntarily placing his left hand upon the secret pocket which contained his perilous despatches—"remember that you were accused of being a spy of the dukes of Guise and Mayenne."
"But falsely so."
"As I may be of being an emissary of Edward Duke of Somerset."
"Then what meaneth all I overheard about your services in Scotland—of Sir William Petre and the Lord St. John of Basing, both of whom are well-known intriguers and favourers of the mad schemes of the late King Henry?"
"'Tis exceedingly probable that they are so," replied Shelly evasively; "for you must know that one is Lord High Chancellor of England, and the other is Secretary of State."
He spoke slowly, to gain time for thought, as he felt all the perils of their position, and glanced down the dark corridor without, surmising, if he suddenly slew Fawside, how he and Patten could get out of the tower, and escape into the forest. The project seemed too desperate; for it scarcely occurred to him, when he relinquished it.
"Now, hark you, sir," said he. "To make this matter short, is it your purpose to make us prisoners?"