"I am here to offer him the more secure shelter of the Manor."
Here my lady sighed, glanced swiftly up at his averted face and made room for him beside her on the rustic bench.
"Will you not—sit down, sir?" she asked softly.
"Thank you but I—am very well here!" he answered; whereupon my lady frowned at her book and fluttered its pages with petulant fingers.
"Can it be sir," she questioned, "can it possibly be that Major John d'Arcy so—so sternly orthodox and——and Whiggish is willing to give shelter to a Jacobite rebel?" The Major bowed. "And you are a—loyal soldier?"
"I—was!" he answered, sighing so deeply that she glanced at him again and beholding his troubled face, her petulant fingers were stilled, her frown vanished and her voice grew suddenly pleading and tender.
"Prithee, Major John will you not—sit awhile?" and she drew aside the folds of her gown invitingly.
"Indeed I—I had—rather not!" he answered, drawing back a step.
My lady's round bosom heaved tempestuous and she glanced at his averted face with eyes of scorn.
"Sir," said she, "the soldier who shelters the enemies of his king is a—traitor!" The Major winced. "And traitors are sometimes—hanged, sir!"