"Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into
compliance with your wishes. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to
the dictates of my conscience. My will is executed, and placed in safe
custody."

"In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly.

"In favour of my son."

"You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.

"I _had_ one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps,
I have one still."

"If I thought so--" cried the knight fiercely; "but this is idle," he
added, suddenly checking himself. "Aliva, your child perished with its
father."

"And by whom were they both destroyed?" demanded his sister, raising
herself by a painful effort, and regarding him with a searching glance.

"By the avenger of his family's dishonour--by your brother," he replied,
coolly.

"Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light,
and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried,
lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was
wedded to that murdered man!"

"A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!"