“Enough,” said he, motioning me to sit down. “I resolved, when you came, to hold no parley with you, and I repent me I have done so. Henceforth, Humphrey Dexter, we are strangers.”
“Be what you will,” said I, “only keep a civil tongue in your head.”
And I went up to bed.
Now this was yet another trial to Peter, who had been used to lie alone while I was absent, and now loathed that I should rob him thus of half his kicking room. But he durst say naught. Only he lay at the far edge, and, instead of saying his prayers, cursed me between his teeth.
It was in my heart to pity Peter Stoupe that night. For it was plain I had come in an evil hour for him. Master Walgrave had been hoodwinked by his smooth manners and lying tongue, and was fain to believe he owed him more for the duty he had done while his master was in gaol than in truth he did. Nor durst my mistress thwart him over much for the same cause. As for Jeannette—if she humoured him and endured his civilities, ’twas because she was ever kind. So all was going well with Peter when I chanced home, who knew him for his worth and promised to spoil his sport. Little wonder, then, if he hated to see me, and kept at the far edge of the bed.
However, I had more to think of than him; and, finding him deaf, even when I tried to be civil, I busied myself with other thoughts, and fell asleep, to dream a jumbled dream of Ludar, and Jeannette, and the captain of the Miséricorde.
I remember I dreamed that Ludar and Jeannette were keeping the watch on deck while I slept below; and that my hour being come, the captain had come down to fetch me, and was standing over me; when I awoke suddenly, and, in the dim moonlight, saw a real figure at the bedside. It was Peter Stoupe, and, though I could scarce see his face, I knew he was glowering on me, white in his hand he slowly lifted a knife above my heart. I was motionless, not with terror—for his hand trembled so it could scarce have dealt a deadly blow—but with horror to find such a man at such a deed. So, though my eyes were open, he saw not that I was awake, and with a gasp brought down his hand. Mine was out in time to catch him by the wrist. “Peter Stoupe!” I cried; “are you gone mad?”
’Twas pitiful to see him then drop on his knees, his face as white as the sheets, and with quaking lips beg for mercy.
“Oh, Humphrey!” he gasped; “forgive—I knew not what I was— Yes, I was mad—forgive this once—”
“Forgive!” said I, “you ask the wrong person. You are on your knees; ask Him who is above to forgive you! ’Tis Him you have wronged, more than me. And when you have done, come back to bed, for I am weary.”