"Who is it?" she called, lightly enough, and shot the bolt with nimble fingers.
"Only I, sweet coz," answered a gay voice, "And I come but to warn you not to venture on deck to-morrow till justice hath been done upon our prisoner."
"Shall you--hang him, Rupert?"
"Assuredly! 'Tis a black rogue and merits a worse fate."
"Is he then tried and condemned already, Rupert?"
"Nay, though 'twill be soon done. We have come on such evidence of his guilt as doth condemn him out of hand."
"What evidence, cousin?"
"His doublet all besmirched with his victim's blood. The man is a very devil and must hang at dawn. So, Joan, stir not abroad in the morning until I come to fetch you. A fair, good night, sweet coz, and sweet dreams attend thee!" And away trips Sir Rupert and leaves us staring on one another, she proud and gracious in all her dainty finery and I a very hang-dog fellow, my worn garments smirched by the grime of my many hiding-places.
"Was this indeed your doublet?" she questioned at last.
"It was."
"How came it stained with blood?" For answer I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. "Have you nothing to say?"
"Nothing, madam."
"You would have me think you this murderer?"
"I would have you think of me none at all," I answered, and smiled to see how I had stirred her anger at last.
"Nay," sighs she, "needs must I think of you as the poor, mean thing you are and pity you accordingly!"
"Howbeit," says I, scowling blacker than ever, "I will get me out of your sight--"
"Aye, but the ladder is gone!"
"No matter," says I, "better a broken neck to-night than a noose to-morrow. To-morrow, aye, the dawn is like to see an end of the feud and the Conisbys both together--"
"And so shameful an end!" says she. At this, I turned my back on her, for anger was very strong in me. So, nothing speaking, I got to my knees that I might come at the trap beneath her berth; but next moment I was on my feet glaring round for some weapon to my defence, for on the air was sudden wild tumult and hubbub, a running of feet and confused shouting that waxed ever louder. Then, as I listened, I knew it was not me they hunted, for now was the shrill braying of a trumpet and the loud throbbing of a drum: "Martin--O Martin Conisby!" She stood with hands clasped and eyes wide in a dreadful expectancy, "What is it?" she panted, "O what is it? Hark--what do they cry!"