“Ye don't say!” he repeated, and came to lean beside her. “And what manner of man did you find him?”
“In those days I esteemed him for an unfortunate gentleman.”
“You were acquainted with his story?”
“He told it me. That is why I esteemed him—for the calm fortitude with which he bore adversity. Since then, considering what he has done, I have almost come to doubt if what he told me of himself was true.”
“If you mean of the wrongs he suffered at the hands of the Royal Commission that tried the Monmouth rebels, there's little doubt that it would be true enough. He was never out with Monmouth; that is certain. He was convicted on a point of law of which he may well have been ignorant when he committed what was construed into treason. But, faith, he's had his revenge, after a fashion.”
“That,” she said in a small voice, “is the unforgivable thing. It has destroyed him—deservedly.”
“Destroyed him?” His lordship laughed a little. “Be none so sure of that. He has grown rich, I hear. He has translated, so it is said, his Spanish spoils into French gold, which is being treasured up for him in France. His future father-in-law, M. d'Ogeron, has seen to that.”
“His future father-in-law?” said she, and stared at him round-eyed, with parted lips. Then added: “M. d'Ogeron? The Governor of Tortuga?”
“The same. You see the fellow's well protected. It's a piece of news I gathered in St. Nicholas. I am not sure that I welcome it, for I am not sure that it makes any easier a task upon which my kinsman, Lord Sunderland, has sent me hither. But there it is. You didn't know?”
She shook her head without replying. She had averted her face, and her eyes were staring down at the gently heaving water. After a moment she spoke, her voice steady and perfectly controlled.