“I will never believe it,” said Sir John. “’Tis nothing but a base lie!”
In the anguish of my spirit I groaned aloud, so that the rest looked curiously at me.
“You believe it!” slowly said Fitzmaurice; “and, by the Mass! so do I.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Sir John. “Not that—not that!”
Then he sprang from his place, and, even in the dim light of the candles, I could not but see how ghastly was his face.
“Not that—not that!” he cried again, then with swift steps turned and left us.
I heard the sound of his feet as he went up the stair to the sleeping-rooms above; presently the noise ceased, but in another moment the stillness was rent by a piercing cry, quickly followed by another and another.
We gazed at each other fearfully, asking mutely what this might portend, when Sir John returned to the hall, his mantle and his hands stained with blood.
“Let this,” cried he in wild accents, and he shivered as the blood dripped from him, “let this be a pledge of the faithfulness of the Desmonds to you and to the cause!”
“What have you done?” asked Fitzmaurice.