h she had
lain buried under a hill and sought to move that burthen. And the next
moment she had found a sort of voice.

"It was a fight," she whispered. "It was not----?" and she paused upon
the word.

"It was a fair fight on my dear master's part," said I. "As for the
other, he was slain in the very act of a foul stroke."

"Not now!" she cried.

"Madam," said I, "hatred of that man glows in my bosom like a burning
fire; ay, even now he is dead. God knows, I would have stopped the
fighting, had I dared. It is my shame I did not. But when I saw him
fall, if I could have spared one thought from pitying of my master, it
had been to exult in that deliverance."

I do not know if she marked; but her next words were, "My lord?"

"That shall be my part," said I.

"You will not speak to him as you have to me?" she asked.

"Madam," said I, "have you not some one else to think of? Leave my lord
to me."

"Some one else?" she repeated.

"Your husband," said I. She looked at me with a countenance illegible.
"Are you going to turn your back on him?" I asked.

Still she looked at me; then her hand went to her heart again. "No,"
said she.

"God bless you for that word!" I said. "Go to him now, where he sits in
the hall; speak to him--it matters not what you say; give him your hand;
say, 'I know all';--if God gives you grace enough, say, 'Forgive me.'"

"God strengthen you, and make you merciful," said she. "I will go to my
husband."

"Let me light you there," said I, taking up the candle.

"I will find my way in the dark," she said, with a shudder, and I think
the shudder was at me.

So we separated--she downstairs to where a little light glimmered in
the hall-door, I along the passage to my lord's room. It seems hard to
say why, but I could not burst in on the old man as I could on the young
woman; with whatever reluctance, I must knock. But his old slumbers were
light, or perhaps he slept not; and at the first summons I was bidden
enter.

He, too, sat up in bed; very aged and bloodless he looked; and whereas
he had a certain largeness of appearance when dressed for daylight, he
now seemed frail and little, and his face (the wig being laid aside) not
bigger than a child's. This daunted me; nor less, the haggard surmise of
misfortune in his eye. Yet his voice was even peaceful as he inquired my
errand. I set my candle down upon a chair, leaned on the bed-foot, and
looked at him.

"Lord Durrisdeer," said I, "it i