ded awkwardly.

"No," answered Lysbeth, "it might concern me."

"Alas! Senora, I fear it does," put in the notary. Then he began to read
the document, which was long and legal. But she was quick to understand.
Before ever it was done Lysbeth knew that she was not the lawful wife of
Count Juan de Montalvo, and that he was to be put upon his trial for
his betrayal of her and the trick he had played the Church. So she
was free--free, and overcome by that thought she staggered, fell, and
swooned away.

When her eyes opened again, Montalvo, officer, notary, and soldiers, all
had vanished.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MARE'S STABLE

When Lysbeth's reason returned to her in that empty room, her first
sense was one of wild exultation. She was free, she was not Montalvo's
wife, never again could she be obliged to see him, never again could
she be forced to endure the contamination of his touch--that was her
thought. She was sure that the story was true; were it not true who
could have moved the authorities to take action against him? Moreover,
now that she had the key, a thousand things were explained, trivial
enough in themselves, each of them, but in their sum amounting to proof
positive of his guilt. Had he not spoken of some entanglement in
Spain and of children? Had he not in his sleep--but it was needless to
remember all these things. She was free! She was free! and there on the
table still lay the symbol of her bondage, the emerald ring that was to
give him the means of flight, a flight from this charge which he knew
was hanging over him. She took it up, dashed it to the ground and
stamped upon it. Next she fell upon her knees, praising and blessing
God, and then, worn out, crept away to rest.

The morning came, the still and beautiful autumn morning, but now
all her exultation had left her, and Lysbeth was depressed and heavy
hearted. She rose and assisted the one servant who remained in the house
to prepare their breakfast, taking no heed of the sidelong glances that
the woman cast at her. Afterwards she went to the market to spend some
of her last florins in necessaries. Here and in the streets she became
aware that she was the object of remark, for people nudged each other
and stared at her. Moreover, as she hurried home appalled, her quick
ear caught the conversation of two coarse women while they walked behind
her.

"She's got it now," said one.

"Serve her right, too," answered the other, "for running after a