story there was gloom in his mind and mystery in the tale itself. She
noticed too that he shrank from her words. She was not very quick of
intellect, so she had to feel her way fumblingly. She must have time
to think, but she said tentatively:

"I suppose it's no secret? I can tell any one at all what happened to
your father?" she asked.

"Oh so--sure so!" he said rather eagerly. "Tell every one about it. He
doesn't mind."

Maitre Ranulph deceived but badly. Bold and convincing in all honest
things, he was, as yet, unconvincing in this grave deception. All these
years he had kept silence, enduring what he thought a buried shame; but
that shame had risen from the dead, a living agony. His father had
betrayed the island to the French: if the truth were known to-day they
would hang him for a traitor on the Mont es Pendus. No mercy and scant
shrift would be shown him.

Whatever came, he must drink this bitter cup to the dregs. He could
never betray his own father. He must consume with inward disgust while
Olivier Delagarde shamelessly babbled his monstrous lies to all who would
listen. And he must tell these lies too, conceal, deceive, and live in
hourly fear of discovery. He must sit opposite his father day by day at
table, talk with him, care for him, shrinking inwardly at every knock at
the door lest it should be an officer come to carry the pitiful traitor
off to prison.

And, more than all, he must give up for ever the thought of Guida. Here
was the acid that ate home, the black hopelessness, the machine of fate