A pause ensued. It was one of those short ages of almost insupportable suspense, when the mind, wound up to the keenest susceptibility of endurance, seems vibrating on the verge of annihilation,--as if the next pulse would snap its connection with the world for ever. "Lady," the pilgrim answered, in a low sepulchral tone, "it is a bequest from thy husband. It was his wife's last pledge--a seal of unchanging fidelity. He bade me seek his dame, and say, 'His last sigh was to her--his last wish to heaven.'" Lady Mabel listened--every tone sunk like a barbed arrow to her heart. The voice resembled not that of her deceased husband, yet such was the deceptive influence arising from the painful irritation which her spirits had undergone, that, if reason had not forbidden, her fancy would have invested it with supernatural attributes--listening to it as though it were a voice from the tomb. "For the love I bore and yet bear to his most honoured name, tell me--I conjure thee, tell me--his earthly resting-place. My last pilgrimage shall be thither. I will enshrine his hallowed relics, and they shall be a pledge of our union where we shall no more part." The last words were spoken with a solemnity of expression awful and thrilling beyond the power of language to convey: "What recks it, lady? thou hast gotten thee another," said the pilgrim. "Another!--Oh name him not. Never, never!--most base, most cruel. He took advantage of my bereavement--a moment of weakness and maternal terror. By what long ages of suffering and wretchedness has it been repaid! Better I had beheld my babes wasting with hunger, than have mated with this unpitying husband for a home and a morsel of bread!" A flush of proud scorn at her own weakness overspread her features. It was but momentary. She bade the attendants withdraw. Looking round for this purpose, she was aware, for the first time, of the hated presence of Roger de Cliderhow, watching, with considerable surprise, for the result of this unexpected interview. He departed with the retinue, leaving Lady Mabel and the pilgrim for a while unobserved. "Thou art a holy and a heaven-destined man, yet surely thou hast been taught to share another's sorrows--to pour the oil of compassion over the wounds of the penitent and broken-hearted." The lady turned aside her head--she leaned over the chair for support, whilst one hand pressed her throbbing temples.