He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same
sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour;
the same proud cast of features. But here the resemblance stopped. The
expression was wholly different. He looked melancholy enough, it is
true. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than
sorrow. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or
the bonnet of an inquisitor. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as
fate itself.

"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. "You
depart for Lancashire to-morrow. Have I your final answer?"

"You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly.
"You shall have the sum you require, but----"

"But what, Madam!"

"Do not misunderstand me," she proceeded. "I give it to King James--not
so you: for the furtherance of a great and holy cause, not for the
prosecution of wild and unprofitable schemes."

Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.

"And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. "Do you still refuse to
make one!"

"I _have_ made one," replied Lady Trafford.

"How?" cried her brother, starting.