"No," replied Herne, coldly, a light coming into his eyes; "it was a desire to save Milly from the snare set by you." "Thank you for your good opinion." "Oh, you may sneer," said Herne, with energy; "but I know you are not a child of God. I fought against you for the soul of Milly, as angels fight against devils of the pit. I had rather she died than lived to be your wife, and lose her soul in worldly pleasures." "All this is beside the question," sneered Lovel. "I want to know about your visit." "I came down to Marborough in a kind of disguise," said Herne, dropping his religious tone for that of a man of the world--"that is, I muffled myself up so that my face could not be recognised. From a stable on the outskirts of Marborough I hired a horse and rode over to Barnstead. I left the horse at The Chequers, where I was not known, and came to this lane, where I watched, hidden behind yonder tree. I saw you, Lovel, come up with Milly; I saw you kiss; and such was my rage that before I could advance I fell into one of those trances to which I am subject. When I came to myself I was alone, and on the ground was the dead body of Milly. It was then, Lovel, that I thought you had killed the poor girl; but I could not prove your guilt because of my trance. Again, as I had come by stealth to Barnstead, I was afraid lest under the circumstances I should be accused of the crime. Therefore I held my tongue about my presence here on that night." "But you accused me!" said Lovel, bitterly. "I do not accuse you now," replied Herne, coldly. "And why?" retorted the young man. "Because you know that Chaskin is the assassin." CHAPTER XXII. A DENIAL. Squire Herne stared blankly at Lovel, and burst out laughing. "Frank Chaskin!" said he; "my old friend, the murderer of my promised wife? You are mad to say so!" "I am not mad, as you know very well, Mr. Herne. I daresay you came out of your trance on that night quickly enough to see Chaskin steal away from the scene of his crime?" "I swear by all that I hold most sacred that I saw nothing of my friend on that night. I rode back to Marborough, and caught the night express to London, without speaking to anyone with whom I was acquainted. I have told you that I came hither in disguise; is it likely, I ask you, Mr. Lovel, that I would nullify that disguise by speaking to my dearest friend? Not only my second self, mark you," added Herne, haughtily, "but a priest of the English Church, to whom I could not without shame reveal my secret visit. I acted for a good object, no doubt, but the means I was forced to adopt were none the less distasteful. I deny that in any way I know that Frank Chaskin is guilty; and, what is more, gentlemen, I would be prepared to stake my existence that he is innocent." "I should like to agree with you, Mr. Herne," said Paul sadly, "but unfortunately I have here a proof of his guilt." "Proof! What proof?"