I said "Amen" and crossed myself devoutly as Thomelin spoke; but even at that moment, which was sad and bitter, the idea uppermost in my thoughts was that which for hours had been presenting itself in such a variety of forms.
"And the secret of my birth, good Thomelin," said I, taking his hand, "know you anything certain as to that?"
"Nothing certain, as I live," answered he earnestly. "Only of this I am, and have ever been, well assured, that Adam of Greenmead was not your grandsire, nor was your mother kinswoman of mine."
"And who, then, was my mother?" I demanded.
"Nay, that is more than I could tell, if both our lives depended on my so doing," he replied. "Whatever the secret, it has perished with those who kept it so faithfully."
I uttered a groan, and well-nigh sank under my mortification.
"In truth, Thomelin," murmured I, "you were right in saying that I had come too late. But God's will be done!"