Suddenly madam leaned forward in her chair. "There is some one
at the door," she said.
As she spoke, the latch rose and some one pushed heavily against
the door. I had drawn the bars across. "Who is it?" I demanded,
going to it.
"It is Diccon, sir," replied a guarded voice outside. "I beg of you,
for the lady's sake, to let me speak to you."
I opened the door, and he crossed the threshold. I had not seen him
since the night he would have played the assassin. I had heard of
him as being in Martin's Hundred, with which plantation and its
turbulent commander the debtor and the outlaw often found
sanctuary.
"What is it, sirrah?" I inquired sternly.
He stood with his eyes upon the floor, twirling his cap in his hands.
He had looked once at madam when he entered, but not at me.
When he spoke there was the old bravado in his voice, and he
threw up his head with the old reckless gesture. "Though I am no
longer your man, sir," he said, "yet I hope that one Christian may
warn another. The marshal, with a dozen men at his heels, will be
here anon."
"How do you know?"
"Why, I was in the shadow by the Governor's window when the
parson played eavesdropper. When he was gone I drew myself up
to the ledge, and with my knife made a hole in the shutter that
fitted my ear well enough. The Governor and the Council sat
there, with the Company's letters spread upon the table.
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