er away from her.

"Edith, Edith! By the Virgin, I implore you to come back with us, and
to leave this wicked man!" cried Mary. "Dear sister, you would not break
our father's heart, nor bring his gray head in dishonor to the grave!
Come back Edith, come back and all is well."

But Edith pushed her away, and her fair cheeks were flushed with her
anger. "What right have you over me, Mary, you who are but two years
older, that you should follow me over the country-side as though I were
a runagate villain and you my mistress? Do you yourself go back, and
leave me to do that which seems best in my own eyes."

But Mary still held her in her arms, and still strove to soften the hard
and angry heart. "Our mother is dead, Edith. I thank God that she died
ere she saw you under this roof! But I stand for her, as I have done all
my life, since I am indeed your elder. It is with her voice that I beg
and pray you that you will not trust this man further, and that you will
come back ere it be too late!"

Edith writhed from her grasp, and stood flushed and defiant, with
gleaming, angry eyes fixed upon her sister. "You may speak evil of him
now," said she, "but there was a time when Paul de la Fosse came to
Cosford, and who so gentle and soft-spoken to him then as wise, grave,
sister Mary? But he has learned to love another; so now he is the wicked
man, and it is shame to be seen under his roof! From what I see of my
good pious sister and her cavalier it is sin for another to ride at
night with a man at your side, but it comes easy enough to you. Look
at your own eye, good sister, ere you would take the speck from that of
another."

Mary stood irresolute and greatly troubled, holding down her pride
and her anger, but uncertain how best to deal with this strong wayward
spirit.

"It is not a time for bitter words, dear sister," said she, and again
she laid her hand upon her sister's sleeve. "All that you say may be
true. There was indeed a time when this man was friend to us both, and I
know even as you do the power which he may have to win a woman's heart.
But I know him now, and you do not. I know the evil that he has wrought,
the dishonor that he has brought, the perjury that lies upon his soul,
the confidence betrayed, the promise unfulfilled--all this I know. Am I
to see my own sister caught in the same well-used trap? Has it shut
upon you, child? Am I indeed already too late? For God's sake, tell me,
Edith, that it is not so?