e Duke of
Hereward. He was one whom I had reckoned as numbered with the dead full
twenty years ago!"

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE ABBESS' STORY.

"'Not the Duke of Hereward!'" echoed Salome, astonishment now overcoming
every other emotion in her bosom.

The abbess bowed her head in grave assent.

"'One whom you thought numbered with the dead, full twenty years ago?'"
continued Salome, quoting the lady's own words, and gazing on her face.

"Full twenty-five years ago, my daughter, or longer still," murmured the
abbess.

"This man is young. He could not have been grown up to manhood
twenty-five years ago."

"He is well preserved, as the selfish and heartless are too apt to be;
but he is not young."

"And he is not the Duke of Hereward?"

"Most certainly not the Duke of Hereward."

"Then in the name of all the holy saints, madam, _who_ is he?"
demanded Salome, in ever increasing amazement.

"He is the Count Waldemar de Volaski, once my betrothed husband, but who
forsook me, as I have told you, for another and a fairer woman," gravely
replied the abbess.

"Once your betrothed husband, madam! Great Heaven! are you sure of this?"
exclaimed Salome, in consternation.

"Yes, sure of it," answered the abbess, slowly bending her head.

"But--pardon me--I thought that _he_ had been killed in a duel by
the lover of the woman whom he had won."

"Even so thought I. The news of his falsehood and of his death at the
hands of the wronged lover, came to me in my convent retreat at the same
time, and I heard no more of him from that day to this, when I have again
seen him in the flesh. The saints defend us!"

"And you are absolutely certain that he was Count Waldemar?"

"I am absolutely certain."

"Mother Genevieve, did you know the woman who was with him?"

"No, not at all. I never saw or heard of her before. She seems to belong
to the _demi-monde_, for she dresses like a princess, and talks like
a peasant. Let us not speak of her," said the lady, coldly.

"We _must_ speak of her, for I think I know who she is."

"You recognize her, then?"

"I cannot say that I do; at least, not by her person. I never saw her
face before; but I have heard her voice under circumstances that rendered
it impossible for me ever to forget its tones; and from her voice I
believe her to be Rose Cameron, a Highland peasant girl of Ben Lone."

"Stop!" exclaimed the mother-superior, suddenly raising her hand. "You do
not mean to intim