would have kept my word.

"I knew what he meant. I resolved that I would never tell you. And but
for Richard's death I would have held my tongue. But to see you in
Richard's place, with Richard's money and Richard's lands, is more than
I can bear. I will not tell this story to the world, but I refuse to
keep you in ignorance any longer. If you like to possess Richard's
wealth dishonestly, you are at liberty to do so. Any court of law would
give it to you, and say that it was legally yours. There is, I imagine,
no proof possible of the truth of my suspicions. Your mother and father
are, I believe, both dead. I do not remember the name of the monk who
acted as my doctor. There may be relations of your parents at San
Stefano, but they are not likely to know the story of Vincenza's child.
At any rate, you are not ignorant any longer of the reasons for which I
believe it possible that you knew what you were doing when you were
guilty of Richard Luttrell's death. There is not a drop of honest Scotch
or English blood in your veins. You are an Italian, and I have always
seen in your character the faults of the race to which by birth and
parentage you belong. If I had not been weak enough to yield to the
threats and the entreaties with which my husband and his tools assailed
me, you would now be living, as your forefathers lived, a rude and hardy
peasant on the North Italian plains; and I--I might have been a happy
woman still."

The letter bore the signature "Margaret Luttrell," and that was all.

The custodian of the place wondered what had come to the English
gentleman; he sat so still, with his face buried in his hands, and some
open sheets of paper at his feet. The old man had a pretty, fair-haired
daughter who could speak English a little. He called her and pointed out
the stranger's bowed figure from one of the cloister windows.

"He looks as if he had had some bad news," said the girl. "Do you think
that he is ill, father? Shall I take him a glass of water, and ask him
to walk into the house?"

Brian was aroused from a maze of wretched, confused thought by the touch
of Gretchen's light hand upon his arm. She had a glass of water in her
hand.

"Would the gentleman not drink?" she asked him, with a look of pity that
startled him from his absorption. "The sun was hot that day, and the
gentleman had chosen the hottest place to sit in; would he not rather
choose the cool cloister, or her father's house, for one little