"I love my husband," said Greta, with an eloquent glance. "To be true to them is to be true to him." There was a pause. Hugh Ritson's manner underwent a change. It was the white heat of high passion that broke the silence when he spoke again. "Greta," he said, and his deep voice had a strong tremor, "if there is any truth in what that priest told us to-night--if it is not a dream and a solemn mockery made to enchant or appal the simple--if there is a God and judgment--my soul is already too heavily burdened with sins against you and yours. I would have eased it of one other sin more black than these; but it was not to be." "What do you mean?" said Greta. Her face was panic-stricken. Hugh Ritson came a step nearer. "That your husband is in my hands--that one word from me would commit him to a doom more dreadful than death--that if he is to be saved as a free man, alive, you must renounce him forever." "Speak plain. What do you mean?" said Greta. "Choose--quick! Which shall it be? You for this convent, or your husband for lifelong imprisonment?" Greta's mind was in a whirl. She was making for the door in front of them. He stepped before her. "I parted you with a lie," he said, "but to me it was not always a lie. I believed it once. Do you think I should have denied my self my inheritance, and let a bastard stand in my place, if I had not believed it?" "What further lie is this?" said Greta. "No matter. Heaven knows. And all I did was for love of you. Is it so guilty a thing that I have loved you--to all lengths and ends of love? I meant to put a hemisphere between you--to send him to Australia, and you back home to Cumberland. What if the lie had then been outfaced? I should have parted you, and that would have been enough." "And now, when your revenge falls idle at your feet, you come to me on your knees," said Greta. "Revenge? That was but a feeble revenge," said Hugh. "He would have learned the truth and come back to claim you. There would have been no peace for me while he was alive and free. Do I come to you on my knees? Yes; but it is to pray of you to save your husband. Is it so much that I ask of you? Think what is earned by it. If you have no pity for me, have you none for him?" She was struggling to pass him. "Greta," he said, "choose, and at once. It is now or never. To-night--to-morrow will be too late. You for a holy life of self-renouncement, or your husband to drag out his miserable days in penal servitude." "This is only another lie. Let me pass," she said. "It is the truth, as sure as God hears us," said Hugh. "I shall never believe it." "I will swear it." He laid a strong hand on her wrist. "I will swear it at the very foot of God's altar." He tried to draw her back into the church. She resisted. "Let me go; I will cry for help." He dropped her wrist, and fell back from her. She drew herself up in silence, and walked slowly away.