"What game?" I asked, with deadly calmness. "Pray say what you have to say at once, Mr. Butler."
Again his evil gaze shifted from face to face; there was no mercy in the eyes that met his; his visage grew loose and pallid.
"That she-devil swore to wed me!" he broke out, hoarsely, pointing a shaking finger full at Silver Heels. "She—swore it!" His voice sank to a hiss.
"To save my father from a highwayman's death!" said Silver Heels, deathly white.
She turned to me, quivering. "Michael, I am a thief's daughter. This is what I am come to!—to buy my father's life with my own body—and fling my soul at that man's feet! Now will you wed me?"
A cold fury blinded me so I could scarcely see him. I cocked my rifle and drew my hand across my eyes to clear them.
"This is not your quarrel!" he said, desperately; "this woman is the daughter of Cade Renard, a notorious highwayman known as the Weasel! I doubt that Sir Michael Cardigan—for your uncle is dead, whether you know it or not!—would care to claim kinship in this house!"
He turned like a snake and measured Mount from head to foot.
"Give me my sword!" he said, harshly, "and I will answer for myself against this other thief!" His glaring eyes fell on Foxcroft.
"What the devil are you doing here?" he snarled. "Are you knave or fool, that you stand there listening to this threat on my life? You know that this woman is Renard's child! You have Sir John's papers to prove it! Are you not his attorney, man? Then tell these gentlemen that I speak the truth, and that I will meet them both, singly, and carve it on their bodies lest they forget it!"