I drew still nearer to her and met her gaze firmly. It was the moment of my revenge.
“Is Cecil Ingram, Earl of Cleeve, whose life is forfeit upon English soil, and whom one word of mine consigns—to the block!”
There was silence in the room—silence unbroken. Twice she raised her hand to her throat and essayed to speak, but no words came from her trembling lips. Then she swayed slightly so that she was fain to seek the support of a small table that stood beside the chair in which she had been sitting. I took a quick step towards her, for I thought that she would fall; but she waived me back and struggled to regain a momentary composure. Ah, my lady, my lady! If you had never suffered in your life before, you suffered then, as there rose before your eyes the vision of a ruined house—a fallen cause—a brother’s trial—the Tower—the scaffold!
“The proof?” she gasped at length, her hands pressed to her bosom, her eyes like those of an animal at bay. “The proof of what you say?”
“Is here,” I answered, unbuckling the rapier at my side and laying it upon the table before her. “Doubtless you will recognise your brother’s sword!”
She bent to scan the hilt, and a low moan of pain escaped her lips.
“Or if you seek still further evidence,” I continued relentlessly, “I have that also. Do you know this ring, madam?” and I stripped the ruby from my finger and held it out to her.
She took it from my hand, and even as she did so my thoughts flew back to our first meeting in that very hall, when she had so scornfully refused to accept the warrant of arrest from me; but now fear and misfortune had broken down her pride. I suppose that the ring itself was a family heirloom, for it required but a single glance for her to recognise it.
“It is his ring—his ring!” she cried; then in a broken voice she added: “God—help—us!”
Her trembling knees would no longer support her; she sank back into the chair, and flinging out her arms upon the table, bowed her proud head upon them and gave way to passionate weeping.