Freke had been sitting all this time, while Judith, standing up, pale and disdainful, spoke to him. But now he rose.
“Now,” he said with sudden seriousness, “since you have expressed that hospitable intention concerning me, let me tell you something—something very interesting, that I have suspected for some time, but only found out to-night. You remember I told you of that death-struggle of Beverley’s with an officer—how they rolled over and over and fought.”
“Yes—yes—”
“And how the officer’s horse, held by the bridle, I thought every moment would trample—”
“Yes—yes—yes!” cried Judith.
“Well,” said Freke, coming up close to her, “Throckmorton was that officer!”
Freke had meant to give her one fierce pang; it was a delicious thing to him to strike her through Throckmorton; but he was quite unprepared for the result, for Judith, although young and strong, after standing for a moment gazing at Freke with wild eyes, swayed and without a sound dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
Freke, cursing his own folly, ran to her and called loudly. His voice echoed through the midnight silence of the house. It brought Mrs. Temple, frightened and half dressed, into the room, followed by Delilah, struggling into her petticoats, and Simon Peter, scratching his wool and but half awake.
Freke had raised Judith on his arm. Something strange, like pity, of which he knew but little, came to him as he looked at her pallid face.
“You git ’way, Marse Temple,” said Delilah, with authority. “Me an’ mistis kin manage dis heah.—Hi, Miss Judy! Open yo’ eyes, honey, an’ tell what de matter wid you.”