It changed, and changed again. Wonder, fear, amaze, bewilderment, flitted over it, till at last he said in English: “Betty, where is my wife?” “Here,” answered Betty. He stared at her. “Nay, I mean the Dona Margaret, your cousin and my lady, whom I wed last night. And how come you here? I thought that you had left Granada.” Betty looked astonished. “I do not understand you,” she answered. “It was my cousin Margaret who left Granada. I stayed here to be married to you, as you arranged with me through Inez.” His jaw dropped. “Arranged with you through Inez! Mother of Heaven! what do you mean?” “Mean?” she answered—“I mean what I say. Surely”—and she rose in indignation—“you have never dared to try to play some new trick upon me?” “Trick!” muttered Morella. “What says the woman? Is all this a dream, or am I mad?” “A dream, I think. Yes, it must be a dream, since certainly it was to no madman that I was wed last night. Look,” and she held before him that writing of marriage signed by the priest, by him, and by herself, which stated that Carlos, Marquis of Morella, was on such a date, at Granada, duly married to the Señora Elizabeth Dene of London in England. He read it twice, then sank back gasping; while Betty hid away the parchment in her bosom. Then presently he seemed to go mad indeed. He raved, he cursed, he ground his teeth, he looked round for a sword to kill her or himself, but could find none. And all the while Betty sat still and gazed at him like some living fate. At length he was weary, and her turn came. “Listen,” she said. “Yonder in London you promised to marry me; I have it hidden away, and in your own writing. By agreement I fled with you to Spain. By the mouth of your messenger and former love this marriage was arranged between us, I receiving your messages to me, and sending back mine to you, since you explained that for reasons of your own you did not wish to speak of these matters before my cousin Margaret, and could not wed me until she and her father and her lover were gone from Granada. So I bade them farewell, and stayed here alone for love of you, as I fled from London for love of you, and last night we were united, as all your household know, for but now I have eaten with them and received their good wishes. And now you dare—you dare to tell me, that I, your wife—I, who have sacrificed everything for you, I, the Marchioness of Morella, am not your wife. Well, go, say it outside this chamber, and hear your very slaves cry ‘Shame’ upon you. Go, say it to your king and your bishops, aye, and to his Holiness the Pope himself, and listen to their answer. Why, great as you are, and rich as you are, they will hale you to a mad-house or a prison.” Morella listened, rocking himself to and fro upon the bed, then with an oath sprang towards her, to be met by a dagger-point glinting in his eyes.