"Naked!" sneeringly echoed Rumsey as he rose from his chair and sauntered towards the table, on whose edge he seated himself, and began carelessly toying with the handle of the poignard he had thrown there. "Let his purple and fine linen shield him."
The coward speaks up.
"They would stand him in less stead against a bullet or a blade-thrust, than even my good Norwich drugget here would shield me, if any man bore me a grudge," answered Goodenough with a faint smile. "But 'tis no matter; why should it be spoken of? 'Tis quite certain that none of us are for killing the king, nor anybody else."
Rumsey's lips twitched with the old baleful smile. "There I think you are out, Master Sheriff," he said, as he took the poignard into his hand, and began examining its hilt with a half absent attention. "The puling scruples of a mere handful out of all our forty boys would not go for much;" and he fixed his eyes in a covert glare on Goodenough, who stood thoughtfully gazing into the lamp; "and these must be got rid of, for a 'house divided against itself cannot stand.'"
"'Tis the assassins who must be got rid of," sturdily retorted Goodenough. "For they foully blot our cause."
"Ha!" cried Rumsey starting up, with the poignard clutched fast in his hand. "Do you forget who—what I am?"
An assassin.
"Nay. But I think you do," answered Goodenough calmly. "You should be a soldier, but it looks much as if you would have me take you for a scoundrel, and a craven-hearted assassin!"
The last word was lost in a sudden sharp shriek of agony; and swaying round, Goodenough clutched convulsively at the poignard which lay plunged to the hilt in his breast, and fell heavily to the floor.