“Dear madam,” Dick cried, “I swear to you upon the rood I touched him not.”
“Swear to me that he still lives,” she returned.
“I will not palter with you,” answered Dick. “Pity bids me to wound you. In my heart I do believe him dead.”
“And ye ask me to eat!” she cried. “Ay, and they call you ‘sir’! Y’ have won your spurs by my good kinsman’s murder. And had I not been fool and traitor both, and saved you in your enemy’s house, ye should have died the death, and he—he that was worth twelve of you—were living.”
“I did but my man’s best, even as your kinsman did upon the other party,” answered Dick. “Were he still living—as I vow to Heaven I wish it!—he would praise, not blame me.”
“Sir Daniel hath told me,” she replied. “He marked you at the barricade. Upon you, he saith, their party foundered; it was you that won the battle. Well, then, it was you that killed my good Lord Risingham, as sure as though ye had strangled him. And ye would have me eat with you—and your hands not washed from killing? But Sir Daniel hath sworn your downfall. He ’tis that will avenge me!”
The unfortunate Dick was plunged in gloom. Old Arblaster returned upon his mind, and he groaned aloud.
“Do ye hold me so guilty?” he said; “you that defended me—you that are Joanna’s friend?”
“What made ye in the battle?” she retorted. “Y’are of no party; y’are but a lad—but legs and body, without government of wit or counsel! Wherefore did ye fight? For the love of hurt, pardy!”
“Nay,” cried Dick, “I know not. But as the realm of England goes, if that a poor gentleman fight not upon the one side, perforce he must fight upon the other. He may not stand alone; ’tis not in nature.”