"And who are they?"
"The Wise Ones, who, being dead, know all things, and live on for ever. Ah, but they're kind to poor Billy, and though they have no buttons to give him, yet they tell him things sometimes. Aha! such things!—things to marvel at! So I sing for them always when the moon is full, but, most of all, I sing for Her."
"Who is she?"
"One who died, many years ago. Folk told her I was dead, killed at sea, and her heart broke—hearts will break—sometimes. So when she died, I put off the shoes from my feet, and shall go barefoot to my grave. Folk tell me that poor Billy's mad—well, perhaps he is—but he sees and hears more than folk think; the Wise Ones tell me things. You now; what do they tell me of you? Hush! You are on your way to London, they tell me—yes—yes, to London town; you are rich, and shall feast with princes, but youth is over-confident, and thus shall you sup with beggars. They tell me you came here to-night—oh, Youth!—oh, Impulse!—hasting—hasting to save a wanton from herself."
"Fool!" exclaimed Barnabas, turning upon the speaker in swift anger; for my lady's hand had freed itself from his clasp, and she had drawn away from him.
"Fool?" repeated the man, shaking his head, "nay, sir, I am only mad, folk tell me. Yet the Wise Ones make me their confidant, they tell me that she—this proud lady—is here to aid an unworthy brother, who sent a rogue instead."
"Brother!" exclaimed Barnabas, with a sudden light in his eyes.
"Who else, sir?" demands my lady, very cold and proud again all at once.
"But," stammered Barnabas, "but—I thought—"
"Evil of me!" says she.