“Your uncle is in his bed, sir,” she answers, still keeping her place. “He is ill, and is not to be disturbed by anyone.” “Then let me see you within, mistress, that I may tell you my news,” says I. “You can tell it to me here, sir,” she says. “Then, by God, I won’t!” I raps out, losing my temper under her provocation. “Look you, cousin, I am perilling myself to serve you, and you treat me like a dog! Is it mannerly to keep me and my friends standing here as if we were beggars?” I saw the colour flash into her cheeks at that, and she stepped back into the kitchen with a motion to us to follow. As we came into the glare of the lights I noticed, though it was no time for thinking of such matters, that her beauty was of the rarest sort and had deepened since I had last set eyes on it. She stood by the fire, one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other still holding the lamp--faith! ’twas the prettiest sight to see her thus with her fine gown and the dainty slippers peeping from beneath it, and her face turned to me with the scorn still lingering in the delicate lines of her mouth. “Now, sir?” says she. But I glanced at the lads who waited in one corner. “What we have to say is private,” says I. “Is there no more private room in the house than this?” I says. But she would take no hint, only she nodded her head to the serving-lads and they slunk into the scullery. “Madam,” says I, “you seem to forget that I am Sir Nicholas’s nephew and a gentleman.” She turned and looked me from head to foot and from foot to head. “A renegade!” she says, and looks straight into my eyes. “Your news, sir! I have no time to waste in bandying compliments or exchanging opinions.” “Faith, madam,” says I, “but you’ve no objection to applying epithets. But renegade or no, I am here to serve you and my uncle, and so I’ll tell you all about it,” and I straightway proceeded to give her a faithful account of all that I had overheard in the kitchen at Reuben Trippett’s old farmstead. She heard me without a sign or a word, save that when I mentioned Anthony Dacre’s name her lip curled with a rare scorn (’sdeath, I wish he had been there to see it!) and her white fingers closed tighter over the rail of the chair. But when she had heard me to the end, and I had told her my plans for their protection, she did not soften a whit, but looked at me with the same cold, hard dislike. “I thank you, sir,” says she, very icily. “It was the act of a gentleman to warn us.” She seemed to melt there somewhat. “And now I will not trouble you to delay your departure longer”--she hardened again--“we are in no need of assistance.” “Nay,” says I, “but that’s just what you are in need of, mistress! ’Tis foolish to belittle your danger--Anthony Dacre----” “I have no fear of him,” says she, very contemptuous, in her own high manner. “And as for Fairfax’s troopers, they will not gain admittance to the house. I myself will see to the bolts and bars.”