Lady Margaret trembled exceedingly. “They wish to ruin me,” she cried—“to tear me from your affection—to make you think me black—to accuse me, not of weakness, brother, but of crimes.”—“Were they to bring such evidences, that the very eye itself could see their testimony, I would disbelieve my senses, before I could mistrust you. Look then calm and happy, my sister. We have all of us faults; the best of us is no miracle of worth; and the gallantries of one, as fair, as young, as early exposed to temptation as you were, deserve no such severity. Come, take the detested packet, and throw it into the flames.”—“It is of no gallantry that I am accused; no weakness, Altamonte; it is of murder!” The duke started. “Aye, brother, of the murder of an infant.” He smiled. “Smile too, when I say further—of the murder of your child.”—“Of Calantha!” he cried in agitation. “Of an infant, I tell you; of the heir of Delaval.” “Great God! have I lived to hear that wretches exist, barbarous, atrocious enough, thus to accuse you? Name them, that my arm may avenge you—name them, dearest Margaret; and, by heavens, I will stand your defender, and at once silence them.” “Oh, more than this: they have produced an impostor—a child, brother—an Italian boy, whose likeness to your family I have often marked.” “Zerbellini?” “The same.” “Poor contrivance to vent their rage and malice! But did I not ever tell you, my dearest Margaret, that Gondimar, and that mysterious Viviani, whom you protected, bore an ill character. They were men unknown, without family, without principle, or honour.” “Brother,” said Lady Margaret, “give me your hand: swear to me that you know and love me enough to discredit at once the whole of this: swear to me, Altamonte, that without proving their falsehood, you despise the wretches who have resolved to ruin your sister.” The duke now took a solemn oath, laying his hand upon her’s, that he never could, never would harbour one thought of such a nature. He even smiled at its absurdity; and he refused to see either the stranger, or to read the packet—when Lady Margaret, falling back in a hollow and hysteric laugh, bade him tear from his heart the fond, the doating simplicity that beguiled him:—“They utter that which is true,” she cried. “I am that which they have said.” She then rushed from the room. The duke, amazed, uncertain what to believe or doubt, opened the packet of letters, and read as follows:—