"I never wished to be harsh to a lady," said Otho, "for that reason I allowed your maid to accompany you this morning; when I took you, I am afraid by guile, and somewhat unceremoniously, from the house you have thought to be yours. But all is fair in love and war. I have also allowed you to be alone throughout this day, but the time is come for the settlement of matters, and this time Roger Trevanion will not be able to help you."
"And is it true, that is—what you told me about him?"
It was my dear Nancy's voice, husky and tearful, which spoke; I gripped my sword-hilt, and with difficulty kept myself from bursting open the door. Hugh Boscawen held my arm, however, and motioned me to be still.
"To quote the great bard," replied Otho in a mocking voice, "he is gone 'to that country from whose bourne no traveller returns.' Trevanion sleeps with his fathers."
"Killed by your hand?"
"Nay cousin, not by my hand; by another's."
"Like Richard, the murderous king, you hire your murderer, I suppose."
"No; Trevanion died in a fair fight, died by my brother Benet's hand."
"In fair fight, you say. Where? when?" and her voice was tremulous.