“And I will cause Sir Richard to give it out that you have taken the oath. Call him in.”
There was a quick gasp from the priest; and then he cried with agony in his voice:
“I cannot, your Grace, I cannot.”
“Cannot call Sir Richard! Why, you are mad, sir!”
“Cannot consent; I have taken no oath.”
“I know you have not. I do not ask it.”
Elizabeth’s voice came short and harsh; her patience was vanishing, and Anthony knew it and looked at her. She had dropped her hand, and it was clenching and unclenching on her knee. Her stick slipped on the polished boards and fell; but she paid it no attention. She was looking straight at the priest; her high eyebrows were coming down; her mouth was beginning to mumble a little; he could see in the clear sunlight that fell on her sideways through the tall window a thousand little wrinkles, and all seemed alive; the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth deepened as he watched.
“What a-Christ’s name do you want, sir?”
It was like the first mutter of a storm on the horizon; but Anthony knew it must break. He did not answer.
“Tell me, sir; what is it now?”