“You—you did not drink any of it?” she said interrogatively, as she took the bottle from his hand. She certainly had not looked to see if any of the contents were gone.
“No—I did not care to.”
“You were not afraid of it, I hope.”
“Not particularly afraid of it, because I knew it could not harm me if I did not taste it. We are all of us, more or less, the creatures of our fancy; and I am willing to confess to you that I took a very strong fancy that it would be best for me not to drink from this bottle.”
“Percy! What do you mean? I hope you—I hope—pshaw! If you’re afraid of being poisoned here you’d better go up to the castle and make your home there. I’ve no doubt they would welcome you with open arms. Oh, what a word I could whisper in that old—”
She stopped suddenly, in full career, as though struck dumb. She looked for a moment longer into the young and handsome face before her; then turned on her heel, and went out into the kitchen, taking the wine bottle with her.
Percy watched her until the closing door behind her had shut her from his view; then he put on his cap; buckled on his sword—a light, but valuable weapon; took a light cloak over his arm, and went forth, determined within himself that he had slept his last sleep, and eaten his last meal, in the old cottage—the home of his boyhood—the only home he had ever known.
He took his way directly toward the shore of the Cove, determined to have speech with old Donald at all events.
And he could not see where would be the danger, unless Tryon had succeeded in stirring up his immediate friends more bitterly against him than he could think possible.
However he was saved all trouble—most agreeably saved. Little more than half the distance through the wood had he gone when he met both Donald Rodney and young Guy Carroll.