"I beg your pardon," he said, "but can I do anything for you, Lady Hurdly?" Oh, that name! She had had an instinct to free herself at last from the burden she had borne, and to tell him, in answer to his question, that he could do this for her--he could hear her tell of the wretched treachery by which she had been led to do him such a wrong, and of the misery of its consequences in her life. But the utterance of that name recalled her to herself. It reminded her not only who she was, but also who and by what means he was also. [Illustration: "THE VERY SPIRIT OF WIDOWHOOD"] "Leave me," she said, throwing out her hand with a repellent gesture. "I have gone through much, and I am not strong. If you have any mercy, any kindness, leave me to myself. It is not proper, perhaps, that I should ask any favor of you, but I do. I beg you not to speak or write to me again until I have done what must be done here, and gone away from this place and this country forever." There was an instant's silence, during which Comrade nestled close to her and tried to lick her hand, all the time looking longingly at Horace. Then a voice, constrained and low, said, sadly: "I will grant your favor, Lady Hurdly. What of the favor I have asked of you?" "I cannot. It is impossible," she cried. "Surely I have been humiliated enough without that. It is the one thing you have in your power to do for me, never to mention that subject again." "I shall obey you," he said; "but in return I ask that you will not forget my request of you, though you have forced me to silence. While a wrong so gross as that goes unrepaired I can never rest. Remember this, and that you have it in your power to relieve me of this burden. Now I will go." He turned and vanished through the shrubbery, Comrade after him. Bettina sank upon the ground, covering her face with the long drapery of her cape. Suddenly she felt a touch. Her heart leaped, and she uncovered her head, showing the light of a great hope in her eyes. But it was only Comrade, nestling close to her, with human-eyed compassion. She threw her arms around him, and pressed her face against his shaggy side. "Did he send you to me, Comrade," she whispered, "because he knew that I was miserable and alone?" The gentle creature whined and wagged his tail as if in desperate effort to reply. "I know he did! I know he did!" she cried. "Oh, how kind and good and unrevengeful he is! And I can never tell him the truth. I can never tell that to any human being, Comrade, but I'll tell it to you." She drew his head close to her lips and whispered a few words in his ear. Then she sprang to her feet, a great light in her eyes, as she threw her arms upward with an exultant movement, and cried, as if to some unseen witness up above, "I have said it!" CHAPTER XIV