"They're ill brought up, then," said Stephen. "I'll take good care my lads don't." "O Stephen! have you some children?--how many?" "Ay, two lads and three lasses. How many have you?" "We're not so well off as you; we have only two maids. Why, Stephen, I'd forgot you were married. I must come and see your wife. But I never heard whom you did marry: was she a stranger?" Poor Stephen was sorely puzzled what to say. On the one hand, he thought Leuesa might safely be trusted; and as Ermine had already suffered the sentence passed upon her, and the entire circumstances were forgotten by most people, it seemed as if the confession of facts might be attended by no danger. Yet he could not know with certainty that either of his old acquaintances was incorruptibly trustworthy; and if the priests came to know that one of their victims had survived the ordeal, what might they not do, in hatred and revenge? A moment's reflection, and an ejaculatory prayer, decided him to trust Leuesa. She must find out the truth if she came to see Ermine. "No," he said slowly; "she was not a stranger." "Why, who could it be?" responded Leuesa. "Nobody went away when you did." "But somebody went away before I did. Leuesa, I think you are not the woman who would do an old friend an ill turn?" "Indeed, I would not, Stephen," said she warmly. "If there be any secret, you may trust me, and my husband too; we would not harm you or yours for the world." "I believe I may," returned Stephen. "My cousin Derette knows, but don't name it to any one else. My wife is--Ermine." "Stephen! You don't mean it? Well, I am glad to know she got safe away! But how did you get hold of her?" Stephen told his story. "You may be very certain we shall not speak a word to injure Ermine," said Leuesa. "Ay, I'll come and see her, and glad I shall be. Why, Stephen, I thought more of Ermine than you knew; I called one of my little maids after her. Ermine and Derette they are. I can never forget a conversation I once had with Gerard, when he took me back to the Castle from Isel's house; I did not think so much of it at the time, but it came to me with power afterwards, when he had sealed his faith with his blood." "Ah! there's nothing like dying, to make folks believe you," commented Roscius. "Can't agree with you there, friend," answered Stephen with a smile. "There is one other thing, and that is living. A man may give his life in a sudden spurt of courage and enthusiasm. It is something more to see him spend his life in patient well-doing through many years. That is the harder of the two to most." "Maybe it is," assented Roscius. "I see now why you were so anxious about old Haldane." "Ay, we owed her no little. And I cannot but think she had some notion, poor soul! of what was coming: she was in such haste to get us off by dawn. If I had known--" "Eh, what could you have done if you had?" responded Roscius. "Wigan told me there were hundreds in the crowd."