He fell back again on his hard pillow. John glanced at his bandaged hands, at his grey and drawn face, and the colour rushed into his own and ebbed again.
“I am come to take you away, Cornelius,” he said faintly.
The Ruard’s brown eyes flashed with their old fire.
“Not yet, I do not submit to my sentence.”
John seated himself on the rush-bottomed chair beside the bed.
“What was the crime your sentence accused you of?”
“None—that is my point; by a flagrant breach of the law the sentence made no accusation, but merely condemned me to banishment.”
“It was read to you here?”
“Yes—though I claimed it should be delivered at the bar of the court … it was for fear of the riots, they said.”