"You forget I have a witness, my lord." For the first time during the conversation she looked across at me. "He would not be there to witness, Margaret. Surely you suppose that I am wise enough to prevent that move. Keep on sitting still, Farmer Oliver. I'm glad, believe me, to see you so interested. A difficult piece of virtue she is, to be sure, and if you could only escape a hanging, which you will not, you might have learned to-night a useful lesson in the art of managing a woman. It's an art, sir, a great, a curious art, and I flatter myself I am somewhat of a master therein." All this time he had kept me in his eye, and the point of his rapier was ready for my slightest move. It had grieved me to the heart to hear him shame this noble woman so, bargaining for her honour as lightly as a marketing housewife chaffers for a pullet. How she had felt it, I could judge in part by the deathly paleness of her face, and the tight hold she was keeping on herself. She dropped into her chair again and buried her face in her hands. He only smiled as one who presages a welcome triumph. I kept still and silent, never moving my eyes from his, praying and waiting for my second. She raised her head and spoke again: "If I did not know you, my lord, I would plead with you. Two men's lives are in my hands, you say, and there is"--she paused--"but one way"--another terrible pause--"of saving them." "You want me to throw in the cattle-drover?" he asked gaily. "Yes," she replied, in a scarcely audible whisper. "It's throwing in five hundred acres of land each of which my father values at a Jew's eye, let me tell you, but, egad, Margaret, you're not dear even at that. Run away home, Farmer Wheatman, and don't be fool enough to play the rebel again." I sat still and silent. Speech was useless, and action not yet possible. That keen swordsman's eye must be diverted somehow. There was a God in heaven, and the rabbit-stew would be ready soon. It was useless to attempt to force matters. And as for his taunts, well, he was but feathering my arrows. So I sat on like a stone. "Go, Master Wheatman," she urged faintly, but I did not even turn to look at her. My heart was thumping on my ribs, my nerves tingling, my muscles involuntarily tightening for a spring. "These yokels are so dull and lifeless, Margaret. He cannot understand our impatience." Out of the corner of my eye I saw her crimson to the roots of her hair at this vicious insult. "Off, my man," he added to me, "or I'll prick your bull's hide." He thrust out his rapier to give point to the threat. Nothing moved me. My eyes were glued to his.