"Dear Valley, let me go on and tell this story for the first and last time. I felt that I had to tell it some day; the day is come; let me finish--finish for my own justification, for I would be justified to you. Well, I never entered the lady's presence again, of course, and, from that day to this, was only my master's faithful servant, and no more. As soon as I was able to travel, my master sent me with you into the town to hire out. I found a good place, where we lived several years. I never even saw my master's face all the time, but strange reports went around, notwithstanding. People said that Colonel Waring and his lady lived very unhappily together; that they quarreled very often; that she was mad with jealousy of the Mestizza; that every time the colonel came in town, there would be a dreadful scene upon his return home. At last it is certain that my master left off visiting the city altogether, and did all his business there by deputies. But the lady's attacks of passion or hysterics became periodical, returning at regular intervals, and in the course of the first year she became a confirmed lunatic. Before the end of the second year, it became necessary to put her under restraint. Finally, she was taken to a Northern lunatic asylum, in the hope of cure, and there, at the end of a few months, she died raving mad, and hurling down imprecations upon me. It was generally reported then, as now, that jealousy had driven her mad; but it was not true--Heaven knows that it was not true, any more than it was true that she had a just cause for her jealousy. For if ever I saw insanity in any creature, I saw it in her great staring eyes the first and only time I ever set mine upon her face. No; jealousy did not cause her madness, but her madness caused her jealousy!" Phædra paused, and, with her head bent upon her hand, remained silent some moments; then she resumed: