"He would not believe you, my sweet Margaret."

"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.