‘Sir,’ she cried, ‘what do you know of that?’
‘Only what my friend told me, senora.’
‘Your friendship must have been close and your memory must be good,’ she murmured.
‘Which he had done,’ I went on, ‘under strange circumstances, so strange indeed that he dared to hope that his broken troth might be renewed in some better world than this. His last prayer was that she should say to me, his messenger, that she forgave him and still loved him, as to his death he loved her.’
‘And how can such forgiveness or such an avowal advantage a dead man?’ Lily asked, watching me keenly through the shadows. ‘Have the dead then eyes to see and ears to hear?’
‘How can I know, senora? I do but execute my mission.’
‘And how can I know that you are a true messenger. It chanced that I had sure tidings of the drowning of Thomas Wingfield many years ago, and this tale of Indians and princesses is wondrous strange, more like those that happen in romances than in this plain world. Have you no token of your good faith, sir?’
‘I have such a token, senora, but the light is too faint for you to see it.’
‘Then follow me to the house, there we will get light. Stay,’ and once more going to the stable gate, she called ‘John.’
An old man answered her, and I knew the voice for that of one of my father’s serving men. To him she spoke in low tones, then led the way by the garden path to the front door of the house, which she opened with a key from her girdle, motioning to me to pass in before her. I did so, and thinking little of such matters at the moment, turned by habit into the doorway of the sitting-room which I knew so well, lifting my feet to avoid stumbling on its step, and passing into the room found my way through the gloom to the wide fireplace where I took my stand. Lily watched me enter, then following me, she lit a taper at the fire which smouldered on the hearth, and placed it upon the table in the window in such fashion that though I was now obliged to take off my hat, my face was still in shadow.
‘Now, sir, your token if it pleases you.’
Then I drew the posy ring from my finger and gave it to her, and she sat down by the table and examined it in the light of the candle, and as she sat thus, I saw how beautiful she was still, and how little time had touched her, except for the sadness of her face, though now she had seen eight-and-thirty winters. I saw also that though she kept control of her features as she looked upon the ring, her breast heaved quickly and her hand shook.
‘The token is a true one,’ she said at length. ‘I know the ring, though it is somewhat worn since last I saw it, it was my mother’s; and many years ago I gave it as a love gage to a youth to whom I promised myself in marriage. Doubtless all your tale is true also, sir, and I thank you for your courtesy in bringing it so far. It is a sad tale, a very sad tale. And now, sir, as I may not ask you to stay in this house where I live alone, and there is no inn near, I propose to send serving men to conduct you to my brother’s dwelling that is something more than a mile away, if indeed,’ she added slowly, ‘you do not already know the path! There you will find entertainment, and there the sister of your dead companion, Mary Bozard, will be glad to learn the story of his strange adventures from your lips.’
I bowed my head and answered, ‘First, senora, I would pray your answer to my friend’s dying prayer and message.’
‘It is childish to send answers to the dead.’
‘Still I pray for them as I was charged to do.’
‘How reads the writing within this ring, sir?’
‘Heart to heart,