which took place years ago in England, and wherein his
conduct--supposing him to be the same--was base to the last degree.
This suspicion I was weak enough to let escape me. His enmity was the
consequence, and from it followed all the misfortunes I have suffered."

"Was he a murderer?"

"No,--not that."

"Nor a forger?--for methinks in English esteem such is the parallel
offence."

"In the case I speak of, forgery was the least of his crimes: he seduced
the wife of his friend and benefactor."

"Oh, the wretch!" exclaimed she, with a derisive smile that gave her
features--beautiful as they were--an almost demoniac expression. "I
trust he never prospered after such iniquity."

Not heeding the tone of sneer in which she uttered this, I replied,
"You are right, Senhora; he lived a life of terror and misery. He was
a coward; and the man he had injured never ceased to track him from
country to country. Over sea and land he followed him; the thirst for
vengeance stimulating a heart dead to every other emotion. Accident,
when I was a mere boy, brought me into close relation with poor
Broughton."

"With whom?" said she, grasping my wrist, while her eyes strained till
the very blood started in them.

"Sir Dudley Broughton," said I; but the words were not out ere she fell
senseless on the floor. I raised her, and placed her on a sofa; and
then, dipping her handkerchief in the fountain, bathed her temples and
her lips. But she gave no sign of returning animation; her arms dropped
powerless at either side; she did not even seem to breathe. What was
I to do? I knew not where to find a bell to summon the servants, even
should I dare to leave her. In my excitement, I believed that she was
dead, and that I had killed her; aud then there darted through my brain
the terrible conviction that this could be no other than Lady Broughton
herself,--the unhappy Lydia Delmar. With a long-drawn sigh she at length
awoke, and, opening her eyes, looked up at me. A convulsive shudder
speedily followed, and she closed them again, and remained still, with
her hands clasped tightly over her heart.

"Have I been dreaming a terrible dream," said she, at last, in a weak
and broken voice, "or are my dreadful thoughts realities? Tell me of
what were we speaking?"

I did not answer. I could not tell her of the sad theme, nor did I dare
to deceive her. In this dilemma I became silent; but my confusion did
not escape her, and with a voice, every syl