He watched her eagerly, and tried to repress the signs of his anxiety.
Elizabeth considered for a moment, then went to the table and sat down by it.
“But,” said she, regarding him with angry suspicion, “the confession,—the plot?”
“Why, madam,” said he, his heart hammering forcefully, “do you think I may communicate them to you directly? The letter shall relate them, too, and if the person who holds the pen for me pays heed to the letter’s contents, is it my fault?”
“I understand,” said the woman, entrapped, and she dipped the quill into the ink.
“The letter,” began Peyton, slowly, hesitating for ideas, and glancing at the clock, yet not retaining a sense of where the hands were, “is to Mr. Bryan Fairfax—”
“What?” she interrupted. “Kinsman to Lord Fairfax, of Virginia?”
“There’s but one Mr. Bryan Fairfax,” said Peyton, acquiring confidence from his preliminary expedient to overcome prejudice, “and, though he’s on the side of King George in feeling, yet he’s my friend,—a circumstance that should convince even you I’m not scum o’ the earth, rebel though you call me. He’s the friend of Washington, too.”
“Poh! Who is your Washington? My aunt Mary rejected him, and married his rival in this very room!”