“True,” he cried, fixing her with wild horror; “and I have not seen you since.... Do you know Viviani?”—“Remember,” said Lady Margaret, rising in agitation, “that I am your mother, Buchanan; and this strange manner agitates, alarms, terrifies me.” “And me,” he replied. “Is it true,” at length he cried, seizing both her hands with violence—“Say, is it true?” “False as the villain who framed it,” said Lady Margaret. “Kneel down there, wretched woman, and swear that it is false,” said Buchanan; “and remember that it is before your only son that you forswear yourself—before your God, that you deny the dreadful fact.” Lady Margaret knelt with calm dignity, and upraising her eyes as if to heaven, prepared to take the terrible oath Buchanan had required. “Pause,” he cried: “I know it is true, and you shall not perjure yourself for me.” “The story is invented for my ruin,” said Lady Margaret, eagerly. “Believe your mother, oh, Buchanan, and not the monster who would delude you. I can prove his words false. Will you only allow me time to do so? Who is this Viviani? Will you believe a wretch who dares not appear before me? Send for him: let him be confronted with me instantly: I fear not Viviani. To connect murder with the name of a parent is terrible—to see an executioner in an only son is worse.” “There are fearful witnesses against you.” “I dare oppose them all.” “Oh, my mother, beware.” “Hear me, Buchanan. Leave me not. It is a mother kneels before you. Whatever my crime before God, do you have compassion. I am innocent—Viviani is....” “Is what?” “Is false. I am innocent. Look at me, my son. Oh, leave me not thus. See, see if there is murder in this countenance. Oh, hear me, my boy, my William. It is the voice of a mother calls to you, as from the grave.”