"You could have done much less, dear lady," I said, taking her hands in mine; "much less, and still be blameless. You have done too much for me already. I would you had not done so much, I would to God I had been hanged before you went upon your knees to that--" She freed one hand and laid a finger on my lip--nay, it was her palm, and if I took a dying man's fair leave and kissed it softly, I think she knew it not. "Hush!" she commanded. "Is this a time to harbor bitter thoughts? I thought you might have other things to say to me, Monsieur John." "There is no other thing that I may say." "Not anything at all?" "Naught but a parting hope for you. I hope you will be true and loyal to yourself, Margery _mia_." "To myself? I do not understand." "I think you do--I think you must." "But I do not." I turned it over more than once in my mind if I should tell her all I had feared; should tell her how I came to kill a man and was fair set to kill another had I found a wedding afoot in the great fore-room. I could not bring myself to do it, and yet I thought it would go hard with me if I should leave her still unwarned. "If I should try to make you understand, you will be angry, as you were before." The wicker chair was close beside the table and she sat down. And when she spoke she had her hands tight-clasped across her knee and would not look at me. "Is it--about--Sir Francis?" "It is," said I, pausing once more upon the brink of full confession. She waited patiently for me to speak further; waited and let me fight it out in slow pacings up and down before her chair. Without, the night was calm and still, and through the opened casement came the measured beat of footfalls on the gravel where the outer sentry kept his watch beneath the window. Within, the single candle battled feebly with the gloom and lighted naught for me save my dear lady's face, pensive now and saintly sweet as it had been that morning when I had dwelt upon it the while she knew it not. And in the background stood the sleepy tire-woman, giving no sign of life save now and then a tortured yawn behind her hand. I think my lady must have known how hard it was for me to speak, for, when the silence had grown overlong, she said, gently: "I bought these flying minutes of the sentry, Monsieur John. Will you not use them?" "If I should say the thing I ought to say, you'll think the minutes dearly bought, I fear." "No, that I shall not, if it will ease your mind." "Then tell me why you sent for Father Matthieu." The light was dim, as I have said, yet I could see the faint flush spread from neck to cheek. "You are not of the Church, Monsieur John. You would not understand if I should tell you." "I think I understand without your telling. You said Sir Francis Falconnet had asked for you." "'Twas you who drove me to say it." "Because I tried to warn you?" "Because you would be vengeful when you should have been forgiving."