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Updated: May 26, 2025
There certainly had been an exclamation of horror on the part of the ladies at Squire Boatfield's forcible expression of annoyance, Dame Harrison taking no pains to conceal her disapproval. "Horrid, coarse creature, this neighbor of yours, good Sir Marmaduke," she said with her usual air of decision. "Meseems he is not fit company for your ward."
"Some old woman's folly," he now said roughly, in response to Squire Boatfield's mute inquiry, "awhile ago she identified the clothes as having belonged to the foreign prince." "Aye, the clothes, de Chavasse," murmured the squire meditatively, "the clothes, but not the man ... and 'twas you yourself who just now...."
Lambert, too, at sight of the cortège had gone to the Quakeress, the kind soul who had cared for him and his brother, two nameless lads, without home save the one she had provided for them. He trusted in Squire Boatfield's sense of humanity not to force this septuagenarian to an effort of nerve and will altogether beyond her powers.
"The old woman Lambert should be made to identify the body, before it is buried," he now repeated with angry emphasis, seeing that a look of disapproval had crossed Squire Boatfield's pleasant face. "We are satisfied as to the man's identity," rejoined the squire impatiently, "and the sight is not fit for women's eyes."
Squire Boatfield's kindly voice recalled her to her immediate surroundings and to the duty self-imposed which had brought her thither.
Squire Boatfield's kind eyes now rested on the old woman, who, awed and silent shut out by her infirmities from this strange drama which was being enacted in her cottage had stood calm and impassive by, trying to read with that wonderful quickness of intuition which the poverty of one sense gives to the others what was going on round her, since she could not hear.
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