“MADAM!” he said, striding up and confronting his wretched daughter, whose conscious looks were the most alarming features in the case, “why do you not speak? If this is a conspiracy, expose it. Where is the wretch that has made this complaint?” “Here, my lord! Behold me! I am that wretch. I depose—I witness, that Madam Estelle L’Orient is the wife of my son, Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” exclaimed the wicked-looking little French woman, whom Sir Parke now saw and recognized as the quondam governess of his daughter. Beginning to perceive the truth, the baronet turned upon his child and inquired, in a tone of suppressed fury— “MADAM, answer! What foundation is there for this trumped-up story?” “_It is true_,” said the wretched Estelle, letting her arms fall by her side, and her chin drop upon her breast, with a look of utter despair. “Do your duty, officer. Remove your prisoner. Take the _feloness_ quickly out of my sight!” cried the baronet, nearly maddened by the shock that had so suddenly hurled his towering pride to the dust. “Sir Parke! Sir Parke! in mercy, you will not abandon your child in her extremity,” pleaded Lord Montressor. “By all the demons, sir, she is no child of mine! I renounce the wife of Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” cried the baronet striding away. “Sir Parke, for the love of God, _look on her_!” prayed Lord Montressor, laying his hand on the arm of the enraged father, and seeking to detain him. “Release me, sir,” thundered the baronet, breaking from his clasp; “My carriage there, sirrahs! Where is Lady Morelle? Let her ladyship be summoned.” “Lady Morelle has fainted, and has been conveyed into the church, my lord,” said the Duchess of Graveminster, who had remained standing in an attitude of stern and solemn haughtiness. Sir Parke left orders for his carriage to come up, and then strode off in the direction of the church. Lord Montressor sought to reassure the deserted and despairing woman at his side. “Estelle, dear, suffering one, take comfort; all that a Christian man may do for you, in your extremity, shall be done by me; rely on me; I will never fail you.” “Monsieur, the constable, look at that woman! She has no right to be on the arm of my lord. Do your duty! arrest her!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with vindictive haste. “I fear I must not long delay, my lord,” interrupted the policeman, respectfully. “One moment, officer, if you please. Madam, for the love of the Saviour, sustain this poor, stricken one, until I send a clergyman to attend her. Estelle, dearest, I must, for your own sake, leave you now. I go to send you proper aid. I will see you again at the magistrate’s—until then, farewell,” said Lord Montressor, gently withdrawing his sustaining arm, and laying her upon the half-repellant, haughty bosom of the Duchess of Graveminster. “God forever bless you, my lord. Whatever becomes of poor Estelle, may God forever love and bless you!” murmured the poor girl, waving him adieu.