|THUS adjured, Madame de Castellan stepped forward to the same position which Mary Forest had occupied at the foot of the bed: nowhere else could Ralph see her, for he was on his back just as they had first laid him, and could not turn his face a hairbreadth to left or right. “Who _are_ you?” asked he bluntly. “I do not remember having seen your face at Mirk.” “They call me Madame de Castellan,” replied the old lady in good English, “and I live here at Belcomb by favour of Sir Richard Lisgard.” “Ah, you have reason, then, to be friends with him and his,” returned the sick man bitterly. “You will none of you see me righted. Curse you all!” “I will not see you wronged, if I can help it, sir,” replied the Frenchwoman solemnly, but keeping her eyes fixed always upon the floor. “Will you not? Well, you have an honest face, I own; but faces are so deceptive! Mistress Forest's face yonder, for instance, is pleasant enough to look upon, but still she plays me false. Master Walter's again--why, he seems to have robbed an angel of his smile, and yet he is base-hearted like the rest; and, lastly, there was my Lucy--not mine now--no, no; but what a sweet look was hers! And there was guile and untruth for you! But that is what I have to tell you. You have said you will not see me wronged, and I must believe you, since there is none else to trust to here. Besides, you are too old to lie; you will be called to your own account too soon to dare to palter with a dying man. Yes, I am dying fast.--More brandy, doctor--brandy. Ah, that's life itself!--And yet, although you are so old, Madame, I dare say you remember your youthful days, when you were fair--for you _were_ fair, I see--and courted. You were not without your lover, I warrant?” “I was loved, sir,” returned Madame, in low but steadfast tones. “And did you marry the man you loved?” “I did, sir. My husband was very dear to me, God knows, though we did not live long together.” “He died young, did he?” “Alas, yes, and I was left alone in the world without a friend or a home.” “His memory did not fade so quickly that you could love and marry another man at once, I suppose?” “His memory never faded,” replied the old lady gravely, “for it has not faded now; but after an interval of three years, I married another man.” “And loved him like the other?” “No, sir; there is only one true love--at least for a woman. But I was a dutiful wife for the second time; and there were children born to me--three children--inexpressibly dear; and when I lost their father, who loved me, though I could only give him grateful duty in return, I had something to live for still.” Whether the grief-laden tone of Madame touched him, or the sad story she was telling, Ralph's accents seemed to lose something of their bitterness when he again broke silence.