“Who is he, lad, a God’s name?”
“’Tis no he,” sighed Sir John.
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir Hector, coming to an abrupt stand; “you mean—her?”
“I do, Hector! ’Tis an ill thing to have an enemy, but if that enemy be a woman, young, beautiful, of high estate and very wealthy—the situation becomes desperate.”
“A wumman!” repeated Sir Hector, rasping thumb and finger across bony chin. “You mean ‘the Barrasdaile,’ of course, John?”
“Aye, the Lady Herminia Barrasdaile.”
“To be sure I mind weel how she raved and vowed vengeance on ye, lad, the night Charles Tremayne was killed——”
“Poor, reckless Charles ... I can see him now, Hector, as he laughed ... and died——”
“Tush, laddie, forget it! ’Twas he drew first, and himsel’ no better than——”
“He is dead, Hector! Sometimes I’ve thought you had been wiser, kinder, to have let me die also, rather than ha’ dragged me back to this emptiness we call ‘life’——”