“Never loved me. Her heart—that which she calls heart—was ever Malfort’s and not mine. She gave me to know as much by a hundred signs and tokens which read plain enough now, looking back, but which I scarce heeded at the time. I believed her chaste, and she was civil, and I was satisfied. I tell you, Angela, this heart never beat for woman till I knew you. Ah, love, be not stone! Make not our affinity an obstacle. The Roman Church will ever grant dispensation for a union of affinities where there is cause for indulgence. The Church would have had Philip married to his wife’s sister Elizabeth.” “The Church holds the bond of marriage indissoluble,” Angela answered. “You are married to my sister; and while she lives you can have no other wife.” Her brow was stern, her courage unfaltering; but physical force was failing her. She leant against the door for support, and she no longer struggled to withdraw her hands from that strong grasp which held them. She fought against the faintness that was stealing over her senses; but her heavy eyelids were beginning to droop, and there was a sound like rushing water in her ears. “Angela—Angela,” pleaded the tender voice, “do you forget that afternoon at the play, and how you wept over Bellario’s fidelity—the fond girl-page who followed him she loved; risked name and virtue; counted not the cost, in that large simplicity of love which gives all it has to give, unquestioning? Remember Bellario.” “Bellario had no thought that was not virtue’s,” she answered faintly; and he took that fainter tone for a yielding will. “She would not have left Philaster if he had been alone in the wilderness, miserable for want of her love.” Her white lips moved dumbly, her eyelids sank, and her head fell back upon his shoulder, as he started up from his knees to support her sinking figure. She was in his arms, unconscious—the image of death. He kissed her on the brow. “My soul, I will owe nothing to thy helplessness,” he whispered. “Thy free will shall decide whether I live or die.” Another sound had mingled with the rushing waters as her senses left her—the sound of knocking at a distant door. It grew louder and louder momently, indicating a passionate impatience in those who knocked. The sound came from the principal door, and there was a long corridor between that door and Fareham’s room. He stood listening, undecided; and then he laid the unconscious form gently on the thick Persian carpet—knowing that for recovery the fainting girl could not lie too low. He cast one agitated glance at the white face looking up at the ceiling, and then went quickly to the hall. As he came near, the knocking began again, with greater vehemence, and a voice, which he knew for Sir John’s, called— “Open the door, in the King’s name, or we will break it open!” There was a pause; those without evidently waiting for the result of that last and loudest summons.