Four days later news came to the manor-house that Meg of the Hills was dying. Since our visit to Meg’s cottage I had seen little of the patroon. This particular afternoon I had spent in my own room in no amiable frame of mind. In fact, I had begun to ask myself why I was at the manor-house at all. I had come to trap the patroon, yet what had I done? I had seen crimes committed before my eyes, and I had been asked to be privy to yet another—the cold-blooded murder of the dwarf. Why did I not go direct to the Earl at New York and expose my new master? In truth, I do not know, yet there were many reasons. In the first place, I still hoped in a vague way to learn more about the circumstances of my sister’s death. I held on, waiting for some bit of evidence that would convict the patroon of her murder. I had not the least doubt that he had murdered her, and the desire for revenge was too sweet to waste upon other crimes. He must meet his punishment for that one and I must be the one to bring him to it.

Yet, as I look back upon these events, I know that there was still a stronger reason than this which stayed my hand, though I did not realize it at the time. Every additional bit of confidence that the patroon put in me made it harder for me to think of betraying my new trust. At times I caught the wild feverish desire of everyone about the manor-house to keep it all away from the knowledge of his daughter. At those times I would be almost willing to draw my sword in defense of the wicked practices of the Red Band rather than have it go to wreck and ruin over the young mistress’ head.

But all these thoughts were cut short by the sound of the patroon’s cane tapping in the corridor towards my door. It was not often that he honored me with a personal visit like this and I rose to receive him.

“Get on your traps,” he said abruptly. “They say that Meg is dying, and, before I could stop her Miriam hurried off to the cottage. Quick man, quick; you must stop her ears again. What if my child should hear what you heard the other night? Hurry, man, would you have me shamed before my daughter?”

“For her sake I’ll go,” I answered; but I muttered between my teeth that it was for none of him I went.

I did not stop to saddle a horse, but went directly on foot. It was a mile or more to the cottage, and when I set out it was about twilight. Before I reached my destination, darkness had closed in. I heard the low sound of a single voice as I drew near the cottage, and when I came to the threshold the sight I saw within made me stop.

The moon was full and the bright light fell across the floor in a wide band. Meg’s face was in the shadow, but the lower half of the cot on which she lay was shrouded in the light. Mistress Miriam was kneeling at the foot of the bed, in the full glow of the light. She was praying, and her hands were clasped with her silver beaded rosary hanging across them. Since the first night of my arrival at the manor-house, I had not often come in contact with the religion I had so often cursed. Now a pang shot through my heart and I turned away. But at that moment long forgotten words came into my mind like a voice from the dead. “No, no, brother,” Ruth had said to me. “Vincent, turn the word of God into your own dull heart before you judge your neighbor.”

So Ruth, my sister, had said to me. I looked in again at this young woman praying in the moon-light and my heart softened. From her beautiful face I looked into the shadow where lay the woman with the memory of her sin.

I could not help but listen. Miriam’s voice was soft and pleading. It fell upon Meg’s ear like a promise of better things. She stopped moaning and her fingers, which were nervously twitching at the bedclothes, grew still and sank restfully by her side.

All this time I had been standing on the step outside, unknown to those within. I had been sent to watch the young mistress and to keep her from hearing what she should not. But I had no strength of will to interrupt this scene. I was about to turn away when my attention was attracted by some words of Miriam’s prayer.

“Holy Mother, help this poor woman. Make her happy in the life to come. In the name of Christ who died let not her death be upon our head. O God, what I have heard, let it not be true.”

My first thought was that the old woman had told her everything; but I was soon undeceived. An interruption came from the shadow.

“What have you heard, my lass?”

Miriam sprang up in excitement; as she did so her rosary fell from her hands to the floor near the door, where I was standing.

“O Meg,” she cried joyfully. “Can you speak again?”

“Ay, my dear, my head feels clearer now. But what have you heard?”

“Nothing, Meg, nothing at all.”

“Tut, tut, do you think it will worry the life out of me? Tell me what it is you have heard?”

“No, no, I must not.”

“Miriam,” cried the old woman, “I’ve loved you all my life, never ask why. There is something on my mind now. I shall die easy if you will tell me what you have heard.”

“O Meg, how can I? Such tales of my father.”

“What are they? I’ve got but a few minutes left to give you comfort in. Tell me, my lass, what you have heard that troubles you.”

I had already had experience of Meg’s devotion to one idea. I thought that now the disclosure would come and that it was time for me to step in and prevent it. Yet I stood immovable as a statue on the outside, against my will.

“I have heard that he was to blame for your illness, and that——”

“It is a lie,” she cried fiercely, rousing herself with some of her old-time spirit. “My little lass, they lie who say such things as that.”

Then, to my astonishment, fell rapidly the old woman’s tale. In quick, passionate words she pleaded on behalf of the patroon. She forestalled every bit of information that might by accident get to Miriam’s ears. She denied the truth of what the patroon had really done. She put good motives where he had acted from bad. Was it her old love returning at the last moment to act in behalf of the man who had ruined her? Or was she, too, like the rest of us trying merely to shield the young mistress? Everyone seemed to love her; everyone tried to save her from the ruin that we all foresaw. I stepped back and retraced my way to the manor-house.

All the way home my mind was occupied with a new thought. I flew backward in imagination to that scene on the Royal Lion when Ruth taught me my duty in words I had forgotten. From the time of our second separation, I had been growing still harder on the Catholics. My heart had leaped with joy when I knew that I had the patroon nearly in my grasp, and that it was a Catholic I was hounding to his ruin. Yet Ruth had taught me to be tolerant. How had I followed her instructions? Should I not be ashamed of myself? Then like a revelation it all came over me; why I had done nothing for so many weeks, why I could not play false to the patroon, why I stood spellbound on the cottage steps when Miriam was praying at the old woman’s bedside. When I left the cottage I held something in my hand. Now I looked at it passionately for a moment and put it in my bosom.

When I reached home I told the patroon what I had overheard, and that there was no danger of his daughter hearing anything he did not wish her to hear. I thought the tears came into his eyes when I told him this.

“It is for love of her,” he said in a low voice. “But not for me. God help her.”

The patroon had nothing for me to do, so I returned to my room. But I could not rest. After a while—it must have been towards midnight—I rose and went outside for a breath of air. I hardly knew where to walk. Then I bethought myself of Miriam alone in the cottage among the hills. I was just turning in that direction when I heard footsteps in the gravel path behind me. I drew back into the shadow to conceal myself till I knew who besides myself was stirring at this hour of the night. I soon recognized Louis Van Ramm coming towards me slowly. He paused near where I was hiding and looked about him.

“Where are you?” he asked in a guarded whisper.

“Here,” I answered.

“Ah, I thought I saw you. Let us walk farther from the house.” When we had gone a short distance he continued abruptly, “My mother is dead. The young mistress will stay there till I come. I told the patroon and he was glad that she was dead. Curse his soul! Now that he knows Ronald and not I was his son I shall go like the rest.”

“Why should he want your life?” I asked.

“I know his secrets. Do you know why Le Bourse died; and who warned the Marmadukes?”

“Was it you?”

“Who else would it be? I knew you from the start. It was I blinded the old fool, for I saw that you brought me a chance of revenge. He killed Ronald. He killed my mother. But that is not all. Do you ever wonder why your sister died?”

“For God’s sake what of that?”

“Not much. She stumbled on one of his secrets and when she would not refuse to tell she was murdered in her bed.”

“Merciful God, shall I stand this? I’ll back and defy him to his face.”

The dwarf caught me by the arm. “Not yet. What proof have you except my word? And any morning may find me dead. We have no fool to deal with unless it is you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You are a Huguenot; Mistress Miriam is a Catholic.”

“What of that?”

“You would not have asked that question three months ago. What did you say to the patroon the night you came, when he asked you to go into service? Yet—what is that?”

He leaned forward and placed his hand upon my breast. This action threw me into a fury.

“Hands off, you dog,” I cried. “Stand back or take the consequences.”

“It is clear enough,” he replied. “She is the witch. You cannot be trusted. But you are all I have. Listen to my story. When your sister was murdered I got word secretly to Lady Marmaduke. The grave was opened in her presence. She knew that his story about branding her was a lie. Yet she would not act. She would not do what I wanted her to. If she had, I should have told her the great secret. But I did not and that must wait.” He turned on me sharply. “Will you kill the patroon?”

“He asked me to do the same by you.”

“Me? When?”

“Four days ago.”

“The day he learned who Ronald was. I knew it would be so. Why did you refuse?”

“I am not a murderer.”

“A spy?”

“No!”

“What then?”

I could not say. I stood in silent shame.

“Well,” continued the dwarf. “You are not ripe for the great secret yet. But remember one thing. Back of the old oven there are some loose bricks. If I die by violence, look there. You may do my bidding yet.”

By this time we had reached his mother’s cottage. Miriam was seated by the bed near which she had placed lighted candles. At our entrance she rose and said that she would go home if I would take her. We set out alone. The air blew very keen and chill in our faces as we passed among the trees of the park. Little was said by either of us till the first cold from leaving the house began to wear away by our brisk walking. Then she began to speak of Meg and of how she seemed happier before she died.

“She said that it was I who made her happier. In truth, I was so happy myself. I had heard some soldiers talking about my father and saying what I could never believe; though it distressed me so. Meg told me how it was, and made me feel ashamed of myself. I had heard that he was expelled in disgrace from the governor’s council. But it cannot be so. Have you heard anything of it?”

“I know,” said I with hesitation, “that he is no longer a member of the council. I have heard that when he left it he behaved with a dignity that carried the day for honor.”

“How could it be otherwise? The Earl deals with doubtful means. My father must have become disgusted with his dishonest practices and resigned.”

I said nothing to contradict her, nor had I said aught but what was strictly true. I remembered well the day we had baited him before the great carved table in the fort, and how much dignity he had shown at the end. Even then, for the moment, I had felt sorry for what I had done. But my good impulses were short-lived; I had much to lead me astray in those days.

“Mistress Van Volkenberg,” I said after a pause, “there is something on my mind to say to you. You know that I am a Protestant. I have had bitter feelings towards people of your faith and bitter treatment from them for many years. But it has been my lot to meet only the worst. I had a sister once”—here my voice trembled and I was fain to stop for a moment—“I had a sister once who tried to teach me better things. I was slow to profit by what she said. But of late your example has made me see the wickedness of my ways.”

“Do not follow me,” she replied. “I am so sinful; but I pray to the blessed Virgin every night, and she sends me strength. I know that she will give me heart to do my duty.”

“Do you really believe that?” I asked.

“Of course, if I pray. I shall get everything I pray for if I ought to have it.”

She spoke with a simpleness of faith that I had never felt in spite of my confident pretensions.

“I wish that I could share your belief. But there are things I have prayed so for without result.”

“You must continue. I confess every night upon my knees. I wish I could have a priest. I used to be afraid to confess my sins to a real person, and that kept me good often when I should otherwise have done wrong. Ah, me, there are no priests in the province now. The new laws punish a priest with death if he come to us. I suppose they will shut us out next.”

This injustice made my blood boil. I had been driven out of France because our church had desired freedom to worship God in our own way. Here the tables were completely turned and I could sympathize with her.

When we arrived at the manor-house she told me that she was going into the little chapel room to pray. Would I go with her? I said “yes,” and was surprised at my answer. I stood near the door while she knelt at the foot of the crucifix. When she arose I noticed that there were two stools to kneel upon.

“Yes,” she said, observing the direction of my glance. “Little Ruth and I used to kneel there side by side. She was of your faith, too. Often she would put her arm about me and pray in her faith while I prayed in mine. Holy Mother, rest her soul.”

She crossed herself devoutly and then we parted. In my own room that night, or rather, morning, for it was nearly dawn when I reached it, I fell to sobbing in great misery. I began to see the error of my ways. I remembered Ruth’s words: “What shall I say at the great day if they charge 'Your brother did this or that wrong in your name? Answer me, Vincent, what shall I say?'”

I could do nothing but fall on my knees and cry, God be merciful to me a sinner. After that I rose with more peace of mind. I put my hand upon my bosom where Louis had laid his upon me, and drew out the rosary which I had picked up when Miriam dropped it on the floor of Meg’s cottage. I held it before me for a moment, then I put it to my lips and kissed it as a sacred thing.