parry reproof, and lay the blame on him, had been without success, he had not noticed even the mean evasions.
"Marianne," he said solemnly, in his deepest, most tremulous tones. "Tell me—who was the father of Giles?"
"That I will not—never—no, I cannot tell."
"You shall, I will hold you here, with my hand clenched, and not let you go—No, never, not all the coming night, not all next day, all the night following—for ever, and ever, until you confess."
She stooped towards the floor, to hide her face from his searching eyes, with the lambent flame in them that frightened her. Then she looked furtively towards the window, and next to the door, into the back kitchen, seeking means of escape.
"It is vain for you to try to get away," said the captain slowly. "Here I hold you, and tighten my grasp, till you scream out the truth. They used to do that in England. They slipped the hands in iron gloves and the feet in iron boots, and screwed till the blood ran out of fingers and foot-ends, and the criminal told the truth. So will I screw the truth out of you, out of your hands. You cannot escape. Was the father of Giles a nobleman?"
"He was not the highest of all—not a duke."
"What was he then?"
She was silent, and strove to twist her hands away. He held both now. He compressed his clutch. She cried out, "I cannot bear this."
"What was his title?"
"You are hurting me, Stephen."
"Was he a nobleman at all?"
With hesitation, and another writhe to get away—"N—no."
"Then, all that story you told of the deception practised upon you was a lie?"
