“Mother! Oh, did you know? Of course you did. There he is, wounded—dying.”
“Dying! dying, did you say?”
“Yes. He was shot in the flurry of capture.”
“Shot in attempting your life, was he not?”
“You are right. Whoever told you, told the truth.”
“Nobody told me, boy. My own instinct so impressed me. Ah, he is on yonder litter! Oh, this is judgment! This is the vengeance of heaven! Matthew Brandon!” going to the side of the litter, “your hand was not red enough with pirating, but you must steal defenseless girls away from their homes!—Oh, boy! boy—your crimes have found you at length!”
“How now, beldam! What do ye here?” cried the wounded man. Presently, with a fiendish gleam in his eye, he added: “Oh, Margery, give yonder old man joy! His hand it was that shot me down! aye! he shot me to save the life of the smuggler’s spawn! What d’ye think of it?”
“Was it the earl’s hand that did it?”
“And to save—”