She laughed in scorn of him.
“I don’t mean that,” she said. “I would get her into our hands, hold her fast, stow her somewhere where she’ll not speak! Maybe in Tyson’s hiding-hole. She’ll catch a cold, but what of that? ’Twill be no worse for her than for you, if you’ve to go there. And the men may be a bit rough with her,” Bess continued, with a malignant smile, while her eyes scrutinized his face, “I’ll not forbid them, for I don’t love her, and I’d like well to see her brought down a bit! But we’ll not squeeze her pretty throat, if that is what you had in your mind.”
He shivered.
“I wouldn’t trust you!” he muttered.
She laughed as if he paid her a compliment.
“Wouldn’t you, lad?” she said. “Well, perhaps not. I’d not be sorry to spoil her beauty. But the men—men are such fools—’ll be rather for kissing than killing!”
“All the same, I don’t like it,” he muttered.
“You’ll like hanging less!” she retorted.
He felt, he knew that he played a sorry part. But it was not he who had brought Henrietta to the house, it was fate. It was not his fault that she had seen him; it was his misfortune. Could he be expected to surrender his life to spare her a little fright, a trifling inconvenience, an inconsiderable risk? Why should he? Would she do it for him? On the contrary, he recalled the look of horror which she had bent on him; she who had so lately laid her head on his shoulder, had listened to his blandishments, had thought him perfect. He was vain, and that hardened him.
“I don’t see how you’ll do it,” he said slowly.