Cordelia was strongly tempted to tell him that the sight of himself, one stormy evening, entering the chapel, and disappearing beneath the altar, had led to the discovery. But Percy told him the same later, and he confessed that he had come in on that night wearing a monk’s robe. And then in astonishment Percy looked at what had never before attracted his attention. In profile the face of Lord Oakleigh was an exact pattern of what Hugh Maitland’s face had been. Sure, it was curious; and yet not at all wonderful that he had not before noticed it. With the full beard of Ralph Tryon on his face, his profile was hidden; while with the face of Matthew Brandon he had not been familiar. On that stormy evening he had not worn his beard nor his wig. A very good litter had been found in the chamber beneath the chapel, and on this the wounded man was placed and so conveyed to the castle. And there a new surprise awaited them. Standing in the court in company with old Donald Rodney was Margery Maitland, looking pale and wan--not the Margery of the olden time. In truth she looked like a woman not long for this lower life. Percy, when he saw her, felt his heart bound with a thrill of regret--almost of remorse. Had his forsaking her caused this sad change? He could not believe it. She had never loved him deeply enough for that. Yet he hastened to her and put forth his hands. “Mother! Oh, why are you--” “Hush, boy! You know not to whom you speak. Where is the other--Ralph Tryon? Where is he?” “Mother! Oh, did you know? Of course you did. There he is, wounded--dying.” “Dying! dying, did you say?” “Yes. He was shot in the flurry of capture.” “Shot in attempting your life, was he not?” “You are right. Whoever told you, told the truth.” “Nobody told me, boy. My own instinct so impressed me. Ah, he is on yonder litter! Oh, this is judgment! This is the vengeance of heaven! Matthew Brandon!” going to the side of the litter, “your hand was not red enough with pirating, but you must steal defenseless girls away from their homes!--Oh, boy! boy--your crimes have found you at length!” “How now, beldam! What do ye here?” cried the wounded man. Presently, with a fiendish gleam in his eye, he added: “Oh, Margery, give yonder old man joy! His hand it was that shot me down! aye! he shot me to save the life of the smuggler’s spawn! What d’ye think of it?” “Was it the earl’s hand that did it?” “Aye, verily.” “And to save--” “The smuggler’s brat! the spawn of an outlaw!” the wretch broke in upon her. “Fool! Fool! How long can he live?” she suddenly asked, turning from the litter to the priest, who stood nearest. “Not many hours.” “Then carry him in, and I must go with him. I have that to say which he must hear.” “Ho! ho! Will ye tell them how ye tried to do the very work they shot me for attempting, Margery?” “Yes, I’ll tell with all my heart. Don’t think I fear.”