"Alas, Martino, I cannot sleep," said she. "I am haunted by the man Tressady, which is surely very strange—oh, very strange. For he was evil like all other men save you and Resolution—and Adam Penfeather. Can you not say somewhat to my comfort? Did he not merit death?"
"Aye, most truly. Had you not killed him—I would."
"For my sake, Martino?"
"Aye," said I, "for yours."
"Why, then 'tis strange I should grieve thus—I have killed men ere this, as you do know, nor troubled; belike 'tis my sickness—or the memory of my lady Joan—Damaris, her gentleness. Howbeit I am sorry and sad and greatly afraid."
"Nay," said I. "What should fright you that do fear nothing?"
"Myself, Martino—I have been—minded to kill you—more than once!"
"Yet do I live."
"And yet do I fear!" said she, with a great sigh.
"And your wound pains you belike?"