Chris had had time to recover himself by now, and was sitting very pale and composed after his dramatic outburst, his hands hidden under his scapular, and his fingers gripped together.
“Now tell me,” said Ralph, with his former kindly contempt. He had begun to understand now what his brother had come about, and was determined to be at once fatherly and decisive. This young fool must be taught his place.
“It is this,” said Chris, still in a trembling voice, but it grew steadier as he went on. “God’s people are being persecuted—there is no longer any doubt. They were saints who died yesterday, and Master Cromwell is behind it all; and—and you serve him.”
Ralph jerked his head to speak, but his brother went on.
“I know you think me a fool, and I daresay you are right. But this I know, I would sooner be a fool than—than—”
—“than a knave” ended Ralph. “I thank you for your good opinion, my brother. However, let that pass. You have come to teach me my business, then?”
“I have come to save your soul,” said Chris, grasping the arms of his chair, and eyeing him steadily.
“You are very good to me,” said Ralph bitterly. “Now, I do not want any more play-acting—” He broke off suddenly as the door opened. “And here is the food. Chris, you are not yourself”—he gave a swift look at his servant again—“and I suppose you have had no food to-day.”
Again he glanced out through the open door as Mr. Morris turned to go.
Chris paid no sort of attention to the food. He seemed not to have seen the servant’s entrance and departure.