"Good evening, Master Andrew," she replied, looking up and nodding, but showing no sign of surprise at his appearance. "Martin is away, but he may return at any moment."
"To-night?"
"Yes."
"Is he still of the same mind?"
"Quite."
"Ah! That is so, is it. And what of Sully?" he continued, somewhat hoarsely. "Is he to die also?"
"They have decided that he must," the girl answered gloomily.
On that, it may be believed that I listened; while the King by a nudge in my side, seemed to rally me on the destiny so coolly arranged for me. "Martin," the girl continued, before the chill sensation had ceased to run down my back, "Martin says it is no good killing the other, unless he goes too—they have worked so long together. But it vexes me sadly, Master Andrew," she added, with a certain break in her voice. "Sadly it vexes me. I could not sleep last night for thinking of it, and the risk Martin runs. And I shall sleep less—when it is done."
"Pooh! pooh!" said that rascally innkeeper, and stirred the fire. "Think less about it. Things will grow worse and worse, if they are let live. The King has done harm enough already. And he grows old besides. And to put off a step of this kind is dangerous. If a word got about—'tis ruin."
"That is true!" the girl answered, gazing drearily at the pot. "And no doubt the sooner the King is put out of the way the better. I do not say a word for him. He must go. But 'tis Sully troubles me. He has done nought, and though he may become as bad as the others—he may not. It is that, and the risk Martin runs trouble me. 'Twould be death for him."