But here Mistress Alison steps up to the other side of the bed and lays her hand on his. “Dear sir,” says she, very gentle and pitiful--faith! I could not have thought she was the same woman that had treated me to more than one sharp speech--“you will do yourself harm to talk so much. If you will but rest----” “Pish!” says he, in his old peevish fashion. “Let me be, wench. Dick and me has matters to talk of. Hark ye, Alison, leave us to ourselves awhile--you women are for ever in the way when there is business of importance to discuss. See them out of the chamber, nephew, and come back to thy seat.” I looked questioningly at Mistress Alison across the bed. She put the tip of her finger to her lips and nodded towards the door. As I held it open for her, “I shall remain just without,” she whispers. “If he seems worse, Master Richard, call me at once.” “Depend upon me,” says I, and shut the door on her and Barbara, and went back to the bedside. My uncle had managed to turn his head on the pillow and he stared hard at me as I approached. “Sit thee down, nephew,” says he. “’Tis poor work talking of serious matters when women are about. And how goes the siege, Dick--shall we withstand the enemy?” “Why, sir,” says I, “I see no reason why we should not. I have taken care that all our defences are strengthened and that everything is in proper order.” “Aye,” he says, “aye. Alison has told me as much--she praised thy generalship. I could like,” he says, “to know how all this came about. What led to it, nephew?--these women, they have no talent for telling a straight tale.” “Why, sir,” says I, “there’s little to tell”--but I began and told him how I had chanced to come into possession of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and of what had befallen us since then. He lay there, very quiet, listening to what I had to say, and making no more comment than an occasional curse on Anthony for his villainy. And when I had finished, “Thou hast done very well, nephew,” says he. “’Twas well thought of to warn us of our danger. So thou didst join the rebels, eh?” he says with a straight look at me. “Yes, sir,” says I. “Since my duty seemed to need it--though, indeed, I was sorry to do aught that was against your wishes,” I says, looking straight back at him. “Well, well,” says he. “I must not reproach thee now, Dick; and, besides, I have known some good men that have thought as thou thinkest on these matters. But I wish thou hadst been plain with me--there was something of the lawyer in thy manner of departing, nephew,” he says, favouring me with another keen look. “Why, dear sir,” says I, very loth, as you may conceive, to excite or vex him, “it was for your own sake that I so behaved myself. And besides,” I says, “you would have locked me up if I had dared to proclaim myself.”