And Gregory, lacking the means to inform him that the missing Kenneth was already returned, was forced to possess his soul in patience until his brother, having learnt what was to be learnt of Cromwell, should journey home.
And so the days sped on, and a week wore itself out in peace at Castle Marleigh, none dreaming of the volcano on which they stood.

Each night Crispin and Gregory sat together at the board after Kenneth and Cynthia had withdrawn, and both drank deep--the one for the vice of it, the other (as he had always done) to seek forgetfulness.
He needed it now more than ever, for he feared that the consideration of Cynthia might yet unman him.

Had she scorned and avoided him and having such evidences of his ways of life he marvelled that she did not--he might have allowed his considerations of her to weigh less heavily.

As it was, she sought him out, nor seemed rebuffed at his efforts to evade her, and in every way she manifested a kindliness that drove him almost to the point of despair, and well-nigh to hating her.
Kenneth, knowing naught of the womanly purpose that actuated her, and seeing but the outward signs, which, with ready jealousy, he misconstrued and magnified, grew sullen and churlish to her, to Galliard, and even to Gregory.
For hours he would mope alone, nursing his jealous mood, as though in this clownish fashion matters were to be mended.

Did Cynthia but speak to Crispin, he scowled; did Crispin answer her, he grit his teeth at the covert meaning wherewith his fancy invested Crispin's tones; whilst did they chance to laugh together--a contingency that fortunately for his sanity was rare--he writhed in fury.