This mighty I was truth itself. It told him plainly that at Marston he might have been more merciful; that at Dunbar, in that great strait between the sea and the Lammermuirs, he might have been more trustful; that in the red streets of Worcester he might have been more just. And he was humbled amid his valiant memories, silently appealing from the accuser to Him who had made the atonement.
The tall black chair in which he sat had been the baron's own for generations. One foot was on its foot stool, the other pressed down the soft white wool of the hearthrug; his left hand lay upon the basket hilt of his long rapier, his right hand shaded his eyes, his fine head drooped slightly forward. But though silent and motionless, he was not alone. On the opposite side of the rug Lady Kelder was spinning flax. The little black wheel, richly carved and tipped with silver, was at her knee, and between it and the snowy flax her white hands made monotonously graceful movements. She wore a dress of black silk with a lawn kerchief pinned across her breast, and a black-silk hood lined with white fell slightly back ward from her white hair. A handsome woman, of an unchanging countenance, compact and conscious, who knew what she meant and what she wanted and in what she believed.
But though she spoke not she glanced frequently toward her husband; and presently he caught her glance, and a loving smile flashed echo-like from face to face. Then she said,—
"Nathaniel stays away so much longer than was spoken of. What think you, dear heart?"
"I think, Joan, that he will have business to be his excuse. Between here and London are many hard miles."
