"Lost?" says I, feeling a tremor of apprehension shake me as I met her truthful eyes. "Lost, say you—how lost?"
"He and his ship were taken by the Spaniards off Hispaniola."
"Taken?" I repeated, like one sore mazed. "Taken—off—Hispaniola?" And here, bethinking me of the cruel mockery of it all (should this indeed be so) black anger seized me. "You lie to me!" I cried. "Ha, by God, you lie! An there be aught of justice in heaven then Richard Brandon must be here."
"Who are you?" she questioned, viewing me with the same wide-eyed stare. "Who are you—so fierce, so young, yet with whitened hair, and that trembles at the truth? Who are you—speak?"
"You have lied to save him from me!" I cried. "You lie—ha, confess!" And I strode towards her, the long blade a-glitter in my quivering grasp.
"Would you kill me?" says she, all unflinching and with eyes that never wavered. "Would you murder a helpless maid—Martin Conisby?" The rapier fell to the rug at my feet and lay there, my breath caught, and thus we stood awhile, staring into each other's eyes.
"Martin Conisby is dead!" says I at last.
For answer she pointed to the wall above my head and, looking thither, I saw the picture of a young cavalier, richly habited, who smiled down grey-eyed and gentle-lipped, all care-free youth and gaiety; and beneath this portrait ran the words:
MARTIN CONISBY, LORD WENDOVER. Aetat. 21.
"Madam," quoth I at last, turning my back on the picture, "Yon innocent was whipped to death aboard a Spanish galleass years since, wherefore I, a poor rogue, come seeking his destroyer."