lection flashing over him.

To this cry there was a response. The door opened, and Sanselme tottered
in.

"Jane! Jane! Did you say Jane?"

Fanfar ran to his assistance.

"Don't trouble yourself about me," cried Sanselme. "Tell me, did I hear
you speak the name of Jane?"

"That is certainly the name on this note," answered Fanfar, extending
the paper in his hand, which Sanselme snatched from him.

"Yes, it is hers. It is my dau--" He stopped even in his delirium he had
strength to conceal his secret. "It is Jane's," he added.

"Then you know this girl?" Fanfar asked, excitedly.

"Do I know her? Was it not she who wished to die? Was it not she whom I
rescued?"

"No, calm yourself. You are mistaken. You must try and tell me what I
wish to know. Terrible dangers threaten those whom perhaps we both
love."

"Is Jane in danger?" asked Sanselme, frantically. "Let me go! I must
leave this place at once."

He started from his chair, but his strength failed him, and if Fanfar
had not caught him he would have fallen.

"Ah!" he half sobbed, "I might have known it! That wretch Benedetto is
always a signal of misfortune to me."

"Who speaks of Benedetto!" said a hoarse voice.

Every one started. Before them stood the mad woman in torn and shabby
garments, with her white hair in disorder. And as Sanselme looked up he
saw her. A terrible cry escaped from his lips, and he recoiled with
staring eyes riveted on the spectre before him.

"It is she!" he murmured. "The dead, it seems, are permitted to revisit
the earth!"

The woman slowly approached Sanselme, and looked at him closely. She
came so near that she could touch him, and then with a wild laugh, she
screamed:

"The convict! Yes, it is he!"

And then, shuddering from head to foot, she repeated, "Benedetto! Who
speaks of Benedetto?"

"What does all this mean?" asked Fanfar.

"I will tell you," said Sanselme, averting his eyes. "Yes, it is true, I
am an escaped convict. This woman is right, but I never did her any
harm. Look at me, woman! Tell me, was it I who struck you?"

The mad woman tore away the rags that covered the terrible scar on her
breast.

"Oh! how it hurts," she said, moaning, "and how hot my head is."

"But who did it?"

The woman in a frightened whisper, answered:

"It was Benedetto--my son!"

A cry of horror escaped from every heart.

"Yes," exclaimed Sanselme, "and the wretch still lives. He assassinated
his mother, and by what mi