A bitter laugh escaped me when I thought of that, and what the ale-soaked trooper would have said and looked like if I had told him all I knew about his saintly reverence.
This led me to consider whether I could trust myself so far as to look on Ferguson just then--supposing Coram had been right in stating he was with the Duke. For might I not, in spite of cooler, better judgment, be constrained to fire a pistol at him, and thereby bring swift death upon me? Yes, in my then fierce, desperate state, it seemed most likely that I should thus lose myself. What then? Why, to begin with, Tubal Ammon would live on, unless John Coram found and settled with him--which I doubted, for indeed there seemed in him no sort of match for Ammon's wriggling craftiness. Thus, in attempting to kill Ferguson (and such a wild excited shot might easily miss its mark!) I should be foiled of doing that which lay still nearer to my heart's desire. Again, my father must be buried on the morrow, and that he should be laid to rest without his son to mourn him was unthinkable.
No, my life, barren and blighted though it was, must not be risked that night, too much depended on it. For a time, at least, I must restrain myself, meet craftiness with craft and guile with guile.
These thoughts, which were so strange a mixture of cold reckoning and burning hate, left me where I had been. A hot and overmastering desire was on me to watch Ferguson, gloat over him, and see how one who had so vilely bargained for my father's death could play the part of holiness before Duke Monmouth and his followers. The very words with which he had thus bartered life for gold rang in my ears; and once again the vision of my father's white set face rose up before me. And then I muttered something, loosed my sword within its sheath, and cast a hungering glance down at the pistols in my belt.
From close at hand there came the heavy tramp of those who went to join the "Cause", while from the street beyond the cries of "Liberty and pure religion!" rose and fell unceasingly.
With curling lip I listened for a space to what, for me, was now a bitter mockery, by reason of one Ferguson the Plotter; then with tight-clenched teeth I strode across the room, bent on I scarce know what, though if ever man had thought of murder in his heart that had I just then. But ere I reached the door there came the rustle of a dress, and Miriam, the landlord's daughter, stood before me.
It may have been the altered look upon my face, or simply great surprise at seeing me, which was the cause of it, I know not; but with a little cry she clasped her hands and started back, while I stood dumb as Lucifer before an angel.
I tried to murmur something, but I could not; nor was there any need; for now she came to me, took both my hands in hers, and looking up with big sad eyes, said softly:
"Oh, Michael, I am very, very sorry for thee."
Her sweet voice trembled, and her pretty head was bowed.