Cecil was stationed at the window to keep watch and bring early report of the approach of the cloaked rider on his black Flemish horse.
Already they had been seen, for Cecil and Knut were tearing across the snowy fields, and Mary Brent and Elinor were at the door with two men by their side. Brent's heart rose in his throat and choked him as he recognized Christopher Neville waving his hand in joyous welcome.
Oh, treachery! And who was that beside him—Ralph Ingle? Well, he might be of use. 'Twas as well that he had come. Ah, now Peggy had reached the door. She was telling the story. Brent's eye never moved from Christopher's face while it went on, and he noted with grim satisfaction that at least the man had the grace to shudder and turn pale. But what was this?—instead of hiding himself as he should from the gaze of honest men, he was coming forward toward him, toward it!
"This is a sad business, Brent!"
"Sad is not the word; 'tis a shameful business."
"Ay, full of shame for the doer, and sadness for the rest of us. Can I help in lifting the body?"
"Nay, that is for those to do who, if they loved him not, yet bore him no malice."
Neville started. How could Brent have heard of the quarrel when he was absent?
"Not only am I one of those, but I sought this priest last night to beg his pardon."
"Hush!" said Brent, hoarsely, "incriminate thyself no further!"