It was the voice of Giles Brent, who had staggered to the door and stood leaning against the post, a new expression of humility on his proud face.
"Sir Christopher Neville," he went on, "I have been hopelessly wrong, honestly but fatally wrong, and I do most earnestly entreat you who have been so deeply injured to believe in the depth of my grief and repentance."
"You had every reason—" began Christopher.
"Ay, but of what use are faith and friendship but to warm the fires about reason when she grows too cold. To my life's end I must bear the bitter thought of my injustice, but I pray God the lesson may not be lost. See, here is my sword, a present from Baltimore! If you can find it in your heart to forgive, accept this and wear it."
With his unwounded arm Brent drew the sword with difficulty from its scabbard, and extended it towards Neville. It was a symbol of surrender. Neville took it, and seizing Brent's hand he raised the hilt of the sword, exclaiming, "By this token I swear fealty to my lady, and to all her kindred!"
"Elinor," said Brent, "this Neville is a worthy gentleman, and thou hast made no mistake in giving thy heart into his keeping."
"Amen," said Margaret Brent.
"Ah," said Elinor, jealously, turning swiftly toward Margaret, "thou didst never doubt him; thou canst afford to be proud."
Margaret Brent smiled. "No storm," she said, "no rainbow; no trial, no faith; no faith, no love."
"Mother," broke in Cecil, "wilt thou wed Thir Chrithtopher?"