He dashed out his left hand nervously, and struck the bottle spinning across the table; it crashed over on to the floor, and the red wine poured on to the boards. “Why, there is blood before your eyes,” he screamed, mad with hunger and sleeplessness, and the horrors he had seen; “the ground cries out.” Ralph had sprung up as the bottle fell, and stood trembling and glaring across at the monk; the door opened softly, and Mr. Morris stood alert and discreet on the threshold, but neither saw him. “And if you were ten times my brother,” cried Chris, “I would not touch your hand.” There came a knocking at the door, and the servant disappeared. “Let him come, if it be the King himself,” shouted the monk, “and hear the truth for once.” The servant was pushed aside protesting, and Beatrice came straight forward into the room. CHAPTER XII A RECOVERY There was a moment of intense silence, only emphasized by the settling rustle of the girl’s dress. The door had closed softly, and Mr. Morris stood within, in the shadow by the window, ready to give help if it were needed. Beatrice remained a yard inside the room, very upright and dignified, a little pale, looking from one to the other of the two brothers, who stared back at her as at a ghost. Ralph spoke first, swallowing once or twice in his throat before speaking, and trying to smile. “It is you then,” he said. Beatrice moved a step nearer, looking at Chris, who stood white and tense, his eyes wide and burning. “Mr. Torridon,” said Beatrice softly, “I have brought the bundle. My woman has it.” Still she looked, as she spoke, questioningly at Chris. “Oh! this is my brother, the monk,” snapped Ralph bitterly, glancing at him. “Indeed, he is.” Then Chris lost his self-control again. “And this is my brother, the murderer; indeed, he is.” Beatrice’s lips parted, and her eyes winced. She put out her hand hesitatingly towards Ralph, and dropped it again as he moved a little towards her. “You hear him?” said Ralph. “I do not understand,” said the girl, “your brother--” “Yes, I am his brother, God help me,” snarled Chris. Beatrice’s lips closed again, and a look of contempt came into her face. “I have heard enough, Mr. Torridon. Will you come with me?” Chris moved forward a step. “I do not know who you are, madam,” he said, “but do you understand what this gentleman is? Do you know that he is a creature of Master Cromwell’s?” “I know everything,” said Beatrice. “And you were at Tyburn, too?” questioned Chris bitterly, “perhaps with this brother of mine?” Beatrice faced him defiantly. “What have you to say against him, sir?” Ralph made a movement to speak, but the girl checked him. “I wish to hear it. What have you to say?” “He is a creature of Cromwell’s who plotted the death of God’s saints. This brother of mine was at the examinations, I hear, and at the scaffold. Is that enough?”