“The thing I have to tell you,” said he presently, “concerns myself.”
“Does it concern me?” she asked him coldly, and her coolness was urged partly by her newborn fears, partly to counterbalance such impression as her illjudged show of gladness at his safety might have made upon his mind. He flashed her a sidelong glance, the long white fingers of his right hand toying thoughtfully with a ringlet of the dark brown hair that fell upon the shoulders of his scarlet coat.
“Surely, madam,” he answered dryly, “what concerns a man may well concern his wife.”
She bowed her head, her eyes upon the road before her. “True,” said she, her voice expressionless. “I had forgot.”
He reined in and turned to look at her; her horse moved on a pace or two, then came to a halt, apparently of its own accord.
“I do protest,” said he, “you treat me less kindly than I deserve.” He urged his mare forward until he had come up with her again, and then drew rein once more. “I think that I may lay some claim to—at least—your gratitude for what I did to-day.”
“It is my inclination to be grateful,” said she. She was very wary of him. “Forgive me, if I am still mistrustful.”
“But of what?” he cried, a thought impatiently.
“Of you. What ends did you seek to serve? Was it to save Richard that you came?”
“Unless you think that it was to save Blake,” he said ironically. “What other ends do you conceive I could have served?” She made him no answer, and so he resumed after a pause. “I rode to Taunton to serve you for two reasons; because you asked me, and because I would have no innocent men suffer in my stead—not even though, as these men, they were but caught in their own toils, hoist with the petard they had charged for me. Beyond these two motives, I had no other thought in ruining myself.”