unterpart whom even I really did mistake for
the Duke of Hereward, as you say; and that the bold, bad beauty who
accompanied him was his wife, Rose Cameron?"

"Nay, daughter, he was Count Waldemar de Volaski!" persisted the abbess.

"What an hallucination! Dear lady, do you not see--But what is the use of
talking? I cannot convince you of your mistake: but circumstances may;
for, of course, sooner or later the unhappy man will be arrested and
brought to trial for his share in the robbery and murder at Castle Lone."

"No, you cannot convince me of mistake, because I have not made any; but
_I_ will convince _you_ of _yours_," said the lady, rising
and striking a match and lighting a lamp; for they had hitherto sat in
darkness.

Salome smiled incredulously.

The abbess went to a little drawer of the stand upon which her crucifix
and missal stood, and drew from it a small box, which she opened and
exhibited to Salome, saying:

"This, daughter, is the only memento of the world and the world's people
that I have retained. I should not have kept even this, but that it is
the likeness of my once betrothed, bestowed on me on the occasion of our
betrothal, cherished once in loyal love, cherished now in prayerful
memory of one whom I supposed had expiated his sins by death, long, long
ago. I have kept it, but I have not looked at it for twenty years or
more."

Salome took the miniature, and examined it carefully with interest and
curiosity.

It was very well painted in water-colors on ivory. It represented a young
man of from twenty to twenty-five years of age, with a Roman profile,
fair complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair and mustache; and so far as
these features and this complexion went, the miniature certainly did bear
an external and superficial resemblance to John Scott and to the young
Duke of Hereward; but in character and expression the faces were so
totally different that Salome could never have mistaken the miniature
to be a likeness of the duke or his brother, or either of these men to be
the original of the picture.

After gazing intently at the miniature for a few minutes, she turned to
the abbess and said:

"You tell me that you have not looked at this for twenty years?"

"I have not," said the lady.

"And you tell me that the man who visited the asylum this morning is the
original of this picture?"

"I do."

"Then, dear mother, your memory is at fault and your imagination deceives
and misleads