... I am like a madman. I am
on my way from Derby, where the news came to me this afternoon. I turned
aside to tell you. They say the truce, as they call it, is at an end. I
came to warn you. You must be careful. I am riding for London. My men
are in the valley. Mistress Marjorie--"
She waved him aside. The blood was beginning again to beat swiftly and
deafeningly in her ears, and the word came back.
"I ... I was shocked," she said; "... you must pardon me.... Is it
certain?"
He tore out a bundle of papers from behind his cloak, detached one with
shaking hands and thrust it before her.
She sat down and spread it on the table. But his voice broke in and
interrupted her all the while.
"They were all three taken together, in the summer.... I ... have been
in France; my letters never reached me.... They were racked
continually.... They died all together; praying for the Queen ... at
Tyburn.... Campion died the first...."
She pushed the paper from her; the close handwriting was no more to her
than black marks on the paper. She passed her hands over her forehead
and eyes.
"Mistress Marjorie, you look like death. See, I will leave the paper
with you. It is from one of my friends who was there...."
The door was pushed open, and the servant came in, bearing a tray.
"Set it down," said Marjorie, as coolly as if death and horror were as
far from her as an hour ago.
She nodded sharply to the maid, who went out again; then she rose and
spread the food within the man's reach.
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