"If that is any comfort to you, except that."
"We may as well add another thing," he sneered; "but I will refrain, because it refers to a lady."
I was silent.
"Oh yes, I have touched you at last, have I? Well, let me give you a little comfort in that direction. The lady shall be well looked after."
I looked at Uncle Anthony as he spoke, and saw the old man's face twitch. In spite of myself I was comforted. My dear maid was not without one friend.
"Perhaps I will refer to that again presently," he went on; "you will be glad to hear her name in your last minutes. But let me tell you another thing: Roger Trevanion, I hate you."
"Doubtless," I said with a sneer.
"I hate you," he went on, and now he spoke quickly and passionately. "I hate you because again and again you have beaten me, and I never forgive a man who has done that. You have outwitted me—yes, I will admit it—and have made the only woman——" he stopped a second as though his passion had led him to commence a sentence which he did not know how to finish. "God is tired of you," he continued presently, "for you have hindered the true king from coming back to England, and with the true king the true faith. We owe our failure to you."
"Yes, you do," I replied, "you do. You thought to restore the fortunes of your dying name. Religion is little to you. How can it be? But the failure of your plans to bring the Pretender here is the deathblow to your hopes. To succeed you have lied, you have played the spy; you have bartered friendship, and all things good and true. Well, I have beaten you. You can take a paltry revenge by killing me, but you cannot undo the fact that I have beaten you."