“Because I have discovered it. Yes, I had always a vague suspicion, an uneasy feeling, and in spite of the marvellous resemblance I could never feel as if he were really my sister’s child. The day he raised his hand to strike me—yes, that day I condemned him utterly.... Chance has justified me! A wandering Spaniard, an old soldier, who spent a night in the village here, was also present at the battle of St. Quentin, and saw Martin Guerre receive a terrible gunshot wound in the leg. After the battle, being wounded, he betook himself to the neighbouring village, and distinctly heard a surgeon in the next room say that a wounded man must have his leg amputated, and would very likely not survive the operation. The door opened, he saw the sufferer, and knew him for Martin Guerre. So much the Spaniard told me. Acting on this information, I went on pretence of business to the village he named, I questioned the inhabitants, and this is what I learned.” “Well?” said Bertrande, pale, and gasping with emotion. “I learned that the wounded man had his leg taken off, and, as the surgeon predicted, he must have died in a few hours, for he was never seen again.” Bertrande remained a few moments as if annihilated by this appalling revelation; then, endeavoring to repel the horrible thought— “No,” she cried, “no, it is impossible! It is a lie intended to ruin him-to ruin us all.” “What! you do not believe me?” “No, never, never!” “Say rather you pretend to disbelieve me: the truth has pierced your heart, but you wish to deny it. Think, however, of the danger to your immortal soul.” “Silence, wretched man!... No, God would not send me so terrible a trial. What proof can you show of the truth of your words?” “The witnesses I have mentioned.” “Nothing more?” “No, not as yet.” “Fine proofs indeed! The story of a vagabond who flattered your hatred in hope of a reward, the gossip of a distant village, the recollections of ten years back, and finally, your own word, the word of a man who seeks only revenge, the word of a man who swore to make Martin pay dearly for the results of his own avarice, a man of furious passions such as yours! No, Pierre, no, I do not believe you, and I never will!” “Other people may perhaps be less incredulous, and if I accuse him publicly——” “Then I shall contradict you publicly!” And coming quickly forward, her eyes shining with virtuous anger— “Leave this house, go,” she said; “it is you yourself who are the impostor—go!” “I shall yet know how to convince everyone, and will make you acknowledge it,” cried the furious old man.