"Incriminate!"—That one word cast a lurid light upon the situation. In an instant Neville saw the pitfalls around his path, and the habit of facing danger had taught him the habit of self-control.
"This," he said, looking Brent full in the face, "is neither the time nor the place for the discussion of your words and all that they do imply. I shall hold myself ready to meet you when and where you will, to answer any and all charges, whether they come from friend or foe."
As Neville turned on his heel he was aware for the first time that Ralph Ingle had been standing close beside him, and of necessity overhearing all that was said. He in turn could not fail to catch Ingle's words addressed to Brent:
"Surely, this judgment is over hasty. I have known Sir Christopher but one day, yet am I loath—"
"Thou loath! and pray what dost think of me? Why, I had torn my heart out rather than believe such a thing of my friend; but justice is justice."
"Yet mercy is mercy."
"Ay, but mercy to one is injustice to another. And this deed is so dastardly it puts the doer beyond the pale of clemency."
"And who is the doer of the deed?" It was Mistress Calvert's voice that spoke, and both men started.
Elinor Calvert stood there before them in her dress of white and gold. She who had come lightly walking across the snow-covered fields, holding her head high and bidding her heart not to beat too joyously, seemed now like some animal decked for the sacrifice, that has been allowed to make merry on the journey to the altar, but now must bare its breast to the sacrificial knife.
"Who is the doer of the deed?" Even as she put the question she knew the answer, yet she stood her ground and gazed steadfastly at the men, whose eyes fell before hers.