"Ah," he said, "this is interesting; you have changed your nation. You
were an Irishman to De Sille in Paris, to the clerk Henriet, and to
the choir at Machecoul. Yet to me you admit in the very first words
you speak that you are a Scot and saw me at the Castle of Thrieve."
Even yet the old Laurence might have turned the corner. He had, as we
know, graduated as a liar ready and expert. He had daily practised his
art upon the Abbot. He had even, though more rarely, succeeded with
his father. But now in the day of his necessity the power and wit had
departed from him.
To the lord of the Castle of Machecoul Laurence simply could not lie.
Ringed as he was by evil, his spirit became strong for good, and he
testified like one in the place of final judgment, when the earthly
lendings of word and phrase and covering excuse must all be cast aside
and the soul stand forth naked and nakedly answer that which is
required.
"I am a Scot," said Laurence, briefly, and without explanation.
"Come with me into my chamber," said the marshal, and turned to
precede him thither.
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