"And is it true, that is--what you told me about him?" It was my dear Nancy's voice, husky and tearful, which spoke; I gripped my sword-hilt, and with difficulty kept myself from bursting open the door. Hugh Boscawen held my arm, however, and motioned me to be still. "To quote the great bard," replied Otho in a mocking voice, "he is gone 'to that country from whose bourne no traveller returns.' Trevanion sleeps with his fathers." "Killed by your hand?" "Nay cousin, not by my hand; by another's." "Like Richard, the murderous king, you hire your murderer, I suppose." "No; Trevanion died in a fair fight, died by my brother Benet's hand." "In fair fight, you say. Where? when?" and her voice was tremulous. "In fair fight; but we need not enter into details now. He is dead, and I am suspected to have left the country with the others who led this business--spoiled, I will admit, through Trevanion. But the end is not yet, and he will not spoil our plans next time. But there are other matters more important to me. My lungs pine for the air of France, and I ask you to come with me." "No, I will not go with you." "Think again, my cousin; for thus I will call you, although we are not related by law. We Catholics have always suffered--we suffer still. So unjust are the English laws to Catholics that you to-day have according to the law no name, no home." "Then why do you persecute me?" "Because I love you." "I do not believe it. If you loved me, you would leave me in peace." "I do love you, I offer you my hand in marriage. I offer you my name--an old name." I heard a movement in the room, there was a sound like that of the rustling of a woman's dress. Then I heard my dear maid's voice again. "Otho Killigrew," she said, "I know not what truth there is in what you say. I know you to be a liar. Again and again have you tried to deceive me. But I do not believe you would offer to marry me if I were nameless and penniless. You--you are too base." "You mistake me, misjudge me, Mistress Nancy," said Otho slowly. "As I tell you, Roger Trevanion is dead; he died before sunrise this morning by my brother Benet's hand. And the other matter is also true. You have no name. Let the fact become known, and you would be a wanderer, a vagrant in the county, for none would give you a home. All children born out of wedlock are despised. But I love you, I would save you from being disgraced; I desire to give you my name, I will make you my wife. True, when I sought your hand I thought you were rightfully the owner of Restormel; but Peter Trevisa hath proved to me beyond dispute that you have no shadow of claim to it. But I love you!" "This is true, my fair lady," and I detected old Peter's voice; "it is true. I have told you so before, but he!--he!" and he giggled feebly, "you know what you said." "And if I marry Otho Killigrew, you will keep the matter a secret, I suppose."