Neville gave a deep groan, and leaned his head upon his arm against the tree.
"Peggy, the knife was mine."
"Thine!"
"Ay; Governor Brent found it hid in the folds of the priest's cloak. He knew it for mine. Canst thou wonder that he accuses me?"
"Does—does any one else suspect thee?"
Neville said nothing, yet his sister was answered.
"Oh, cruel! cruel!" she cried. "How could she know thee so long, and credit any such base slander? She is a—"
"Hush! Not a word of her. Whatever she does, says, thinks, is right and forever beyond cavil."
"Monstrous!" groaned his sister, "the man is so daft that if this woman tells him he has committed murder he will bow his head in meek assent. Oh, be a man, be a man, I pray thee, and give her back scorn for scorn!"
"She has shown me no scorn,—only a sad, half-sick listlessness, as though she too had got a death-wound at my hands. It is that which has cut me to the heart as no pride or wrath or disdain had had power to do."