You have
brought your cousin, your own flesh and blood, to Whitehall to sell her
to the king, and--"
"That is a lie, Hamilton!" I cried, springing to my feet, "and, by God,
you shall answer for it as soon as you are able to hold a sword!"
"I shall be very willing," he returned, though it was evident he was
somewhat cooled by my anger. "But since you would know the cause of my
ill-feeling, sit down and hear what I have to say."
I resumed my chair, and he continued: "I can see no reason for your
cousin's strange aversion to me save that you have used well the time of
my absence in traducing me, hoping doubtless to smooth the king's path by
removing me from her thoughts."
What he said did little to allay my anger until I looked into his face
and saw that by reason of his fever and his great trouble, he was not
responsible for his words. I had been on the point of giving him the lie
the second time, but after a moment's consideration, my anger changed to
pity, and I said:--
"Forgive me, Hamilton. I am sorry I spoke in anger. You did not lie. You
have been simply jumping at conclusions."
"Perhaps," he answered wanderingly.
"But if I tell you, upon my honor, that you are mistaken, will you
believe me?" I asked, still feeling a touch of irritation.
He did not answer, so, thinking to give him one more chance, I continued
gently: "I have neither harbored an unkind thought of you nor spoken an
unkind word of you since the day we parted at Sundridge.
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