Now at this she loosed the bell-rope very suddenly and, covering her face with her hands, stood thus awhile:
"God pity me!" says she at last in weeping voice. "I may not forget how you saved me from—" Here a tremor seemed to shake her; then she spake again, yet now scarce above a whisper. "Your face hath looked upon me night and morn these two years, and now—O Martin Conisby, were you but the man I dreamed you!"
"I'm a rogue new-broke from slavery!" says I.
"Aye," she cried suddenly, lifting her head and viewing me with new and bitter scorn, "and one that speaketh lies of an absent man!"
"Lies!" quoth I, choking on the word. "Lies, madam? Why then, how cometh my picture here—my coat of arms above the mantel yonder, the Conisby 'scutcheon on your gates? What do you at Conisby Shene?"
Now in her look I saw a sudden doubt, a growing dread, her breath caught and she shrank back to the panelled wall and leaned there, and ever the trouble in her eyes grew. "Well, my lady?" I questioned, "Have ye no answer?"
"'Twas said ... I have heard ... the Conisbys were no more."
"Even so, how came Sir Richard by this, our house?"
"Nay—nay, I—I know little of my father's business—he was ever a silent man and I—have passed my days in London or abroad. But you—ah, tell me—why seek you my father?"
"That is betwixt him and me!"