am not what
Elizabeth tells you that I am. I am _not_ Geoffrey Bingham's mistress.
It is true that I was in his room that night, and it is true that he
carried me back to my own. But it was in my sleep that I went there, not
of my own free will. I awoke there, and fainted when I woke, and then at
once he bore me back."

Elizabeth laughed shrill and loud--it sounded like the cackle of a
fiend.

"In her sleep," she said; "oh, she went there in her sleep!"

"Yes, Elizabeth, in my sleep. You do not believe me, but it is true. You
do not wish to believe me. You wish to bring the sister whom you should
love, who has never offended against you by act or word, to utter
disgrace and ruin. In your cowardly spite you have written anonymous
letters to Lady Honoria Bingham, to prevail upon her to strike the blow
that should destroy her husband and myself, and when you fear that this
has failed, you come forward and openly accuse us. You do this in the
name of Christian duty; in the name of love and charity, you believe the
worst, and seek to ruin us. Shame on you, Elizabeth! shame on you! and
may the same measure that you have meted out to me never be paid back to
you. We are no longer sisters. Whatever happens, I have done with you.
Go your ways."

Elizabeth shrank and quailed beneath her sister's scorn. Even her
venomous hatred could not bear up against the flash of those royal eyes,
and the majesty of that outraged innocence. She gasped and bit her lip
till the blood started, but she said nothing.

Then Beatrice turned to her father, and spoke in another and a pleading
voice, stretching out her arms towards him.

"Oh, father," she said, "at least tell me that _you_ believe me. Though
you may think that I might love to all extremes, surely, having known
me so many years, you cannot think that I would lie even for my love's
sake."

The old man looked wildly round, and shook his head.

"In his room and in his arms," he said. "I saw it, it seems. You, too,
who have never been known to walk in your sleep from a child; and you
will not say that you do not love him--the scoundrel. It is wicked of
Elizabeth--jealousy bitter as the grave. It is wicked of her to tell the
tale; but as it is told, how can I say that I do not believe it?"

Then Beatrice, her cup being full, once more dropped her head, and
turned to go.

"Stop," said Owen Davies in a hoarse voice, and speaking for the first
time. "Hear what _I_ have to say."

S