'I implored him--oh! how I implored him--again and again, I did indeed--to send for the parson before your birth. He was reckless. At length he seemed touched by my distress, and sent. The parson was laid up with gout, but promised to be with us on the morrow. Then--it was too late--and my lord put it off again, saying that it didn't matter, and that nobody would know. I hoped that he was right, and was comforted. When, six years later, Terence was born, the case was altered. We both saw it--alas! too late; he felt it as much as I. But after all, you were the first-born--a ceremony delayed could not alter that. It was not fair that you should suffer for what was but an act of negligence. We discussed the matter anxiously, and my lord decided to bury the secret. No one would suspect, or think to examine the date of the register, if we agreed to hold our peace. We never spoke of it--never--but we saw it in each other's eyes; and from that moment I lost his love--he was always looking with regret on Terence in a way which maddened me, while I clung to you. You were the child of sorrow. I suffered much for you on that accursed island; and then that--that woman cast her meshes over him. My lord changed his mind before he died--desired me to noise the tale abroad to all the world. I could not--my pride revolted--and my love for you. None knew the secret except one--that harlot!--my lord was faithless in that as in all other things!' My lady's voice died away, as a host of grim recollections crowded on her memory. Presently she looked up in alarm, for Shane had made no comment. The cicatrice upon his brow stood out. She put forth her hands; he seized her by the wrists and flung her down. Without resistance she sank moaning backwards on the floor. Turning on his seat, he poured out a tumblerful of wine and drank it off; then--the whole truth breaking at last upon his slow intellect--he tore his hair, growling, and smote himself upon the head, and staggered round the room with reeling steps. Doreen did not try to hide herself, she was transfixed with wonder; yet though she showed like a vision in hoar-frost, impressed upon the casement, he saw her not. He was only aware that there was another Lord Glandore--who would return his contumely with interest--that his own portion was beggary and a bend-sinister. No wonder if the phantom of this new prospect churned and curdled his besotted brain. 'He'll hate me and take my property and title!' he muttered through his teeth again and again, in querulous cadence. 'What's to become of _me_--what's to become of _me?_ I might as well be shot as beggared.'