justice, and my word is doubted ere I can prove the truth. Is it for
judges to assail one so? Five years ago I was married secretly, in St.
Michael's Church--secretly, because Philip d'Avranche urged it, pleaded
for it. An open marriage, he said, would hinder his promotion. We were
wedded, and he left me. War broke out. I remained silent according to
my promise to him. Then came the time when in the States of Bercy he
denied that he had a wife. From the hour I knew he had done so I denied
him. My child was born in shame and sorrow, I myself was outcast in this
island. But my conscience was clear before Heaven. I took myself and my
child out from among you and went to Plemont. I waited, believing that
God's justice was surer than man's. At last Philip d'Avranche--my
husband--returned here. He invaded my home, and begged me to come with
my child to him as his wife--he who had so evilly wronged me, and wronged
another more than me. I refused. Then he stole my child from me. You
ask for proofs of my marriage. Messieurs, I have no proofs.

"I know not where Lorenzo Dow may be found. The register of St. Michael's
Church, as you all know, was stolen. Mr. Shoreham, who witnessed the
marriage, is dead. But you must believe me. There is one witness left,
if he will but speak--even the man who married me, the man that for one
day called me his wife. I ask him now to tell the truth."

She turned towards Philip, her clear eyes piercing him through and
through.

What was going on in his mind neither she nor any in that Court might
ever know, for in the pause, the Comtesse Chantavoine rose up, and
passing steadily by Philip, came to Guida. Looking her in the eyes with
an incredible sorrow, she took her hand, and turned towards Philip with
infinite scorn.