"And what is the other trifling condition in the paper that thou speakest of?" I asked.
"That thou dost renounce all right and pretension that thou mayest have to the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll," he said.
I laughed scornfully.
"Thou hadst best save thy breath," I said.
"Thou hast no claim—no hope," he rejoined, rising to his feet. "The lady is about to become the bride of the Lord Dunraven. What difference can it make to thee if thou signest away the right to something that thou hast not, if by doing so, thou canst save thy life?"
"Why dost thou wish me to sign the paper, then?" I asked. "If the estates and title are already thine, and the lady Dunraven's?"
He hesitated a moment.
"There are reasons," he finally said. "Reasons that I cannot explain to thee, but sufficiently weighty for us to give thee thy life, if thou wilt sign this document. More than this I durst not say."
"Us," I repeated. "Why not say Dunraven and thyself? It would sound better thus."
"Well," he replied defiantly, "if thou dost wish it thus, have it thine own way. This much is certain: sign this paper and thou art free, a competency in thy hands sufficient to support thee in comfort—refuse, and thy head will pay the penalty," and he stood, his back to the door, leering at me.