I saw that he was trying to suppress his excitement, but it soon got the better of him. He rose from his chair, drew the rug closer about him, and walked rapidly to and fro across the room a minute or two. Being near my chair, he bent down to me, looked wildly about him to see that no one was eavesdropping, and whispered:-- "I intend to kill the king just as soon as I'm out of this. Then God or the devil, I care not which, may finish me." At that moment Betty came in, followed by one of the maids carrying our dinner. I asked George to eat with me, but he refused and lay down on the bed, drawing the rugs up to his chin and shaking in an ague. The maid left us, but Betty remained, evidently expecting to wait on us and incidentally to talk, for she dearly loved to relieve her mind. As much as I liked Betty, I asked her to leave us, and when she was gone, I drew my chair to George's bedside, leaving the dinner to cool. "First, I want to tell you again," said I, "that Frances is not the king's mistress, nor ever will be." "Do you know, or do you believe?" he asked. "I know," I answered, and followed up my assertion with a full account of her life at court, the king's infatuation, at which she laughed, his offer of a pension, which at first she refused, the respect in which every one held her, and the wisdom with which she carried herself through it all. "Ned, you're as great a fool about her as I was," he returned, shaking his head. "Do you suppose Charles Stuart would give her a pension with no other purpose than kindness or justice? Be sane! Don't be a fool!" "I say nothing of his purposes; I speak only of her conduct. But I shall not argue with you. If you find any pleasure in your opinion, keep it," I answered, knowing that I could not reason with a man who was half crazy. "I shall," he replied sullenly. "But there is another matter in which I believe you will agree with me," I continued. "I have discovered the cause of my cousin's ill feeling--of her change respecting yourself." He rose from his bed, demanding excitedly: "What is it? Tell me, tell me!" "You have just told me that you and Churchill were walking at a considerable distance behind Crofts and the others when Roger Wentworth was killed." "Yes, yes," he returned. "Perhaps as much as two hundred yards." I watched his face closely to study the effect of my next bit of information, and after a long pause, asked, "Do you know that Frances was in the coach?" "No, no! Hell and furies! In the coach when Wentworth was killed? My God, tell me all about it, man!" he cried, clutching my arm, and glaring at me with the eyes of a crazy man. "Yes," I answered. "And she tells me she recognized one of the robbers by the light of the coach lanthorn, though she refused to describe the man she saw and will not be induced to talk about him. Possibly you were the unlucky man. If true, can you wonder that she hates you?"