Hubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and the ruffle round his wrist trembled as he leaned heavily with his fingers on the table.
“I am only a plain Protestant now,” he said bitterly, “and I have been with Protestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic ways; but——”
“Stay, Hubert,” said his mother, “do not finish that. You will be sorry for it presently, if you do. Come, Margaret.” And she moved towards the door; her son went quickly past and opened it.
“Nay, nay,” said the nun. “Do you be going, Mary. Let me stay with the lad, and we will come to you presently.” Lady Maxwell bowed her head and passed out, and Hubert closed the door.
Mistress Margaret looked down on the table.
“You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it.”
Hubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her.
“It is no use, it is no use,” he burst out, and his voice was broken with emotion, “you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what have you done with my Isabel?” He put out his hand and seized her arm. “Give her back to me, Aunt Margaret; give her back to me.”
He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sob or two.
“Sit up and be a man, Hubert,” broke in Mistress Margaret’s voice, clear and cool.