"Nay, nay," said Ralph, with his frank smile, "'twere poor comradeship to begin with asking of favors; besides, there is naught in your gift that I crave unless—unless—"
"Out with it, man!"
"Well, then, your influence with your kinswoman, Mistress Elinor Calvert."
Brent started.
"I never dreamed of this," he said.
"Nor I, on my faith, till I was so deep there was no turning back. She is one of those women that to love once is to love always. I would do anything for her,—sacrifice my life, nay, my soul itself,—but she is cold as the ice floating in yonder river."
Giles Brent's face grew set and stern.
"I can well believe it, for I fear 'tis not alone that she loves you not; but that her heart has been given to another and clings but the closer, the unworthier she finds him."
"Then it was Neville. I suspected as much. But now, surely now that he is dead, there may be a chance for me."
"My friend, you little know Elinor Calvert. She has made this murderer into a saint, and she will burn candles to his memory and say masses for his soul while she lives."