His lids dropped over his flashing eyes; he lifted his head still higher.
“Enough,” he said.
“To hang us all,” said Celia Hunt hoarsely. “My God!”
“Perhaps,” he assented. “Now will you try to send a warning to Jerome Caryl?”
She had fallen back a step.
“No,” she said. “I shall prevent you leaving this place—”
He laughed. “Who will stop me?” he asked.
She swayed a little, staring at him.
“You know too much,” she panted. “Oh, my God, I would give something to know what to do.” He laughed at her; with a lithe movement he came close, his right hand was loosely over his sword, the other, shapely and white, rested on his hip, thrust into the folds of his purple sash; the carelessness of his attitude stung her like a taunt.
“I am a fool!” she cried passionately. “I should have waited till ye slept then bid my father settle you—you hireling spy!”