“That is true, Mary. I know not how it was, but perhaps the cold and wet of that dreadful night made my fingers shrink--you remember how wan and thin I looked--and the ring must have dropped off; I never saw it after I reached land. But I was none the less a widow--as I thought; and although friendless, save for you, Mary--homeless and penniless, I thought I could never take another husband to my arms, although the raging sea had worked that rough divorce between us. At first, I replied: 'No, Sir Robert, never;' you will bear me witness that I did. Then, when he pressed me still, I bargained for three years. I thought that he would tire of waiting for me, and get some fitter mate in the meantime; I did, as Heaven is my judge. I was true to my poor Ralph--he had saved me upon that spar at the risk, and, as I then believed, at the sacrifice of his own life--as long as I--nay, I was true to him in a sense for ever. Sir Robert was well aware of that. I do not need justification from man or woman; God himself absolved me, I think, so far. But that was an evil day, Mary, when I married. I was no more Sir Robert's wife than you were, Mary. Think of that. And he was not my husband. And our children, of whom he was so proud, are baseborn--bastards. Sir Richard--is it not terrible? do you not wonder that I live and am not mad?--he is not Sir Richard. And my dear, dear Walter, he is baseborn too. And Letty--for whom her eldest brother thinks nobody too high--she, too, is no Lisgard. If I had waited seven years instead of three, this would not have been so. There are law-books in the library which have told me so much; but I have no adviser--none; no friend--yes, you, Mary, I know--but not one who can help me. Is not this something worse than death itself which has fallen upon me!” “And this man Derrick--he was Gavestone?” whispered Mary Forest in a hoarse grating voice. “Yes; did I not tell you so? I only found it out last Christmas Eve. I knew his voice, and I knew the carol that he sang. For one thing only do I thank Heaven--I who had reason, as I thought, to be thankful for so many things--that Sir Robert is not alive. His sleep in yonder churchyard is disturbed by no such ghastly dream. Ah, happy dead!” “Mistress, beloved mistress,” cried the waiting-maid, in an agony of remorse--“forgive me that I have been thinking of myself these many weeks, while you have been so burdened and tormented. Henceforth, I am yours only. As I hope to get to heaven when I die, I will be true to you whatever happens. Let us think what that may be.”