And Brion? He neither guessed, nor was ever to know, the secret motives which had underlain this interrogation. That this man suspected him of scheming in some diabolical way against his life and fortunes was the one apparent thing; and with that explanation of a mystery he must rest content. He had no heart or wish, indeed, to inquire further; he wanted only, as he had himself truthfully declared, to put him for ever out of his mind. A long time Leicester sat gazing into the young undaunted face, as if striving to recall some memory from it. At length he sighed and spoke:-- ‘Shall I believe thee? Well, sith thy truth unflatters me, I will believe it truth. Yet fain would I learn what brought thee to London, and in that company?’ ‘I shall not tell you what.’ ‘Rash and headstrong! Bethink you what you say.’ ‘I do, and say it. I shall not tell you. What brought me was no thought of you, nor anything concerning you. Have I not said it? I am not so proud of this connexion that I wish to vaunt it. To deny it, rather, since I had no voice in it. Be assured of that. It shall never be betrayed for me.’ ‘Nor shall word to living soul of this interview--eh--an I let thee free?’ ‘That follows--though I give my promise, if you will.’ ‘Ah!’ He put his hands on the elbow of his chair, preparing to rise. ‘Well, thou hast been in peril--believe me. That thou hast escaped it, thank her whose trustful spirit looks from out thine eyes. For thy rash insolence--I forgive it.’ He got heavily to his feet, went forth and back once or twice in a narrow space, and stopped before the young man. ‘Why will you hate me?’ he said. ‘Have I much reason to love?’ answered Brion, his voice yielding a little. ‘So you do hate me?’ ‘Hate connotes harm. I would not harm you, before God.’ ‘Will you--for her sake--call me once by that name your duty owes me?’ The boy shook his head. Something rose in his throat, hard as he struggled to resist it. ‘I could not,’ he whispered. Leicester turned away, without a word. He stood looking down upon the glowing hearth. ‘It may chance, boy,’ he said, in a voice so strange and moving in such a man that it seemed to betray one secret of his influence over impressionable hearts--‘that you judge me too harshly. That I risked greatly where I loved may be no condonation of my fault, yet at least it may testify to the wholeness of my devotion. For my wrong to thee, I regret it. Since there is no remedy, I will say no more. I could take pride in thee, but I may not. It is better we should never meet again. Go, and for her sake remember me as kindly as thou mayst. Call Granton hither.’