“Oho! So it’s you? Viper! You have found the secret. Oh, may the fiends of—” He stopped, with a shoot of pain in his side, and was forced to hold his tongue for a time.
Cordelia was strongly tempted to tell him that the sight of himself, one stormy evening, entering the chapel, and disappearing beneath the altar, had led to the discovery. But Percy told him the same later, and he confessed that he had come in on that night wearing a monk’s robe.
And then in astonishment Percy looked at what had never before attracted his attention. In profile the face of Lord Oakleigh was an exact pattern of what Hugh Maitland’s face had been.
Sure, it was curious; and yet not at all wonderful that he had not before noticed it. With the full beard of Ralph Tryon on his face, his profile was hidden; while with the face of Matthew Brandon he had not been familiar. On that stormy evening he had not worn his beard nor his wig.
A very good litter had been found in the chamber beneath the chapel, and on this the wounded man was placed and so conveyed to the castle. And there a new surprise awaited them.
Standing in the court in company with old Donald Rodney was Margery Maitland, looking pale and wan—not the Margery of the olden time. In truth she looked like a woman not long for this lower life.
Percy, when he saw her, felt his heart bound with a thrill of regret—almost of remorse.
Had his forsaking her caused this sad change? He could not believe it. She had never loved him deeply enough for that. Yet he hastened to her and put forth his hands.
“Mother! Oh, why are you—”
“Hush, boy! You know not to whom you speak. Where is the other—Ralph Tryon? Where is he?”