"You have tried to torture me," he said, "just as you would hang a dog by its tail, or draw the teeth of a rat. You have threatened with worse torture a good and loyal woman. You are a scoundrel, and you know it! But even you would hesitate if you knew for certain who or what you are. Let me tell you again, now, when we are alone, and while I have no personal interest to serve: You are the man whose name I gave you—Paul Lowther, son of Robert Lowther—and that lady, my brother's wife, whom for reason of profit you would compel to live under the same roof with you, is your own sister!"
Drayton's loud guffaw rang out above the wind's moan in the trees. His cronies within heard it and listened.
"It's a rare old story, that is. Let me see; you've told it before, I fancy."
"Then it was a lie; now it's God's truth!" said Hugh.
Drayton laughed again.
"And then it was believed, but now it's not. No, no, Master Hugh, it won't pass."
"We will see."
Hugh Ritson had swung about and was gone.
Drayton went back to his friends.
"Hasn't the pluck of a pigeon when it comes to the push," he muttered.