“Thank you, Miss Sally,” spoke Sheriff Will sarcastically. “’Twas well played, but I think you overreached yourself for the nonce. Something went awry. Come out, young fellow! ’Tis a pretty chase you’ve given me. Come out, or I’ll shoot.”
“I yield, sir,” answered Clifford Owen crawling out. “I yield—to treachery. I congratulate you, Mistress Sally. The dungeon of which you spoke was not so much of a myth as I had supposed.”
But at that Sally regained her tongue.
“Peggy,” she cried flinging herself down beside her friend, “didn’t thee hear me? I said the loom. I said the loom, Peggy. Oh, I never meant—I didn’t think he was there. Tell him, Peggy! Make him believe me. Thee knows that I wouldn’t do such a thing. Tell him, Peggy.”
“‘Thus do all traitors,’” quoted Clifford with an upward curl of his lip. “‘If their purgation did consist in words, they are as innocent as grace itself.’ I was a fool to trust a woman. Officer, take me where you must. Any place is preferable to breathing the same air with treachery.”
“Clifford, Clifford!” cried Peggy going to him. “I am so sorry that it hath come out so. Oh, Clifford, what can I do for thee now? And Sally! I know that it happened as she hath said. She would not——”
“You can do naught, my cousin,” answered he, his eyes softening as they rested upon her. “You, at least, are guiltless of overt act toward me.”
“And Sally also,” she began eagerly, but the boy’s lips set in a straight line.
“We will not discuss it,” he answered loftily. “I hope that no trouble will come to you, Peggy.”