He told her what had been so suddenly revealed to him, taxing her with it. She acknowledged it, her wits battling to find some way by which she might yet gain a few moments more. She would cling to the key, and though he should offer her violence, she would not let it go without a struggle, and that struggle must consume the little time yet wanting to make it too late for him to save the Duke, and--what imported more--thus save herself from betraying her brother's trust. Another fear leapt at her suddenly. If through deed of hers Monmouth was spared that night, Blake, in his despair and rage, might slake his vengeance upon Richard.
"Give me that key," he demanded, his voice cold and quiet, his face set.
"No, no," she cried, setting her hand behind her. "You shall not go, Anthony. You shall not go."
"I must," he insisted, still cold, but oh! so determined. "My honour's in it now that I know."
"You'll go to your death," she reminded him.
He sneered. "What signifies a day or so? Give me the key."
"I love you, Anthony!" she cried, livid to the lips.
"Lies!" he answered her contemptuously. "The key!"
"No," she answered, and her firmness matched his own. "I will not have you slain."
"'Tis not my purpose--not just yet. But I must save the others. God forgive me if I offer violence to a woman," he added, "and lay rude hands upon her. Do not compel me to it." He advanced upon her, but she, lithe and quick, evaded him, and sprang for the middle of the room. He wheeled about, his selfcontrol all slipping from him now. Suddenly she darted to the window, and with the hand that clenched the key she smote a pane with all her might. There was a smash of shivering glass, followed an instant later by a faint tinkle on the stones below, and the hand that she still held out covered itself all with blood.
"O God!" he cried, the key and all else forgotten. "You are hurt."
"But you are saved," she cried, overwrought, and staggered, laughing and sobbing, to a chair, sinking her bleeding hand to her lap, and smearing recklessly her spotless, shimmering gown.
He caught up a chair by its legs, and at a single blow smashed down the door--a frail barrier after all. "Nick!" he roared. "Nick!" He tossed the chair from him and vanished into the adjoining room to reappear a moment later carrying basin and ewer, and a shirt of Trenchard's--the first piece of linen he could find.
She was half fainting, and she let him have his swift, masterful way. He bathed her hand, and was relieved to find that the injury was none so great as the flow of blood had made him fear. He tore Trenchard's fine cambric shirt to shreds--a matter on which Trenchard afterwards commented in quotations from at least three famous Elizabethan dramatists. He bound up her hand, just as Nick made his appearance at the splintered door, his mouth open, his pipe, gone out, between his fingers. He was followed by a startled serving-wench, the only other person in the house, for every one was out of doors that night.