a lifetime hidden a sin or a sorrow and suddenly finds the joy of a
confessional which relieves the sick heart, takes away the hand of
loneliness that clamps it, and gives it freedom again; lifting the poor
slave from the rack of secrecy, the cruelest inquisition of life and
time. She repeated the words once more, a little louder, a little
clearer. She had vindicated herself to God, now she vindicated herself
to man--though to but one.

"I can never marry you; because I am a wife," she said again. There was
a slight pause, and then the final word was said: "I am the wife of
Philip d'Avranche."

Ranulph did not speak. He stood still and rigid, looking with eyes that
scarcely saw.

"I had not intended telling any one until the time should come"--once
more her hand reached out and tremblingly stroked the head of the child
--"but your faith has forced it from me. I couldn't let you go from me
now, ignorant of the truth, you whose trust is beyond telling. Ranulph,
I want you to know that I am at least no worse than you thought me."

The look in his face was one of triumph, mingled with despair, hatred,
and purpose--hatred of Philip d'Avranche, and purpose concerning him.
He gloried now in knowing that Guida might take her place among the
honest women of this world,--as the world terms honesty,--but he had
received the death-blow to his every hope. He had lost her altogether,
he who had watched and waited; who had served and followed, in season and
out of season; who had been the faithful friend, keeping his eye fixed
only upon her happiness; who had given all; who had poured out his heart
like water, and his life like wine before her.