“I hope so, sir. I have seen something of the world.” “Wait for me in the library.” Wilson nodded. “I will be with you in an hour.” Jeffray, his shirt stained with Lancelot’s blood, passed back down the stairway to the lawn, and took his coat from the sundial where he had left it. Bess followed him from the terrace, wondering what had caused the quarrel between Richard and the big man with the red face. “Thank God, you are safe,” she said, proud of him in her woman’s way. “Why did you fight? Tell me; I do not understand.” Jeffray stooped and picked up the sword that lay on the grass where he had thrown it when Lot fell. “Do you know who that man was?” he asked her. “No.” “Lancelot Hardacre.” “Sir Peter’s son?” “Yes.” “Why did he come to quarrel with you?” “Because I had refused to marry his sister.” They stood silent a moment, looking at each other, each knowing by intuition what was passing in the other’s mind. A great weight of doubt had been lifted from Jeffray’s heart. Life had taken a simpler meaning for him now that Lot Hardacre’s blood had set the seal of enmity upon the past. The action of an hour had sundered him irretrievably from Jilian and brought him nearer to this child of the woods. “Bess,” he said, holding his sword between his hands, “I never loved this woman. Do you believe me when I tell you that?” She colored, and her eyes flashed up to his. “Yes, I believe it.” “It is you whom I love, Bess. Now, before God, I have told you the truth.” He set the sword by the point in the grass, reached out and took her hands. “I want to do what is best for you,” he said. “I know—I know—” “We have come to life’s crossways, dear; give me a night to see my way.” She looked up fearlessly into his face. “I trust you,” she said, simply. “I trust you with all I have.” He led her across the terrace to the house, and into the blue parlor beyond the dining-room. There he left her by the open window with the scent of thyme and woodbine floating in upon the air. Crossing the hall, Jeffray went into the great salon that had been of old the prior’s parlor, and rang the bell for Peter Gladden. The butler, curious behind his respectful suavity, entered, to stare inquisitively at his master’s white and determined face. The sword that had pierced Lot’s body lay naked upon the table. “Gladden.” The butler bowed. “Tell your wife to prepare the best bedroom. See that everything is in order.” “Your servant, sir.” “Mrs. Elizabeth Grimshaw is to be my guest. Your wife must wait on her in person. Let her meals be served her in her bedroom. Your wife, Gladden, must sleep in the dressing-room that opens from Mrs. Grimshaw’s room. Understand me in this, Gladden, that every command must be obeyed.” The butler, astonished, but too well disciplined to betray the feeling, bowed again to his master and appeared all deference and submission. “Gladden.” “Yes, sir.”