I can look him in the face without a blush."

"It may be, madam," said Sir John; "or have I presumed to think the
contrary."

"You will not believe me?" she cried. "You think I am a guilty wife? You
think he was my lover?"

"Madam," returned the Baronet, "when I tore up my papers I promised your
good husband to concern myself no more with your affairs; and I assure
you for the last time that I have no desire to judge you."

"But you will not acquit me! Ah!" she cried, "_he_ will--he knows me
better!"

Sir John smiled.

"You smile at my distress?" asked Seraphina.

"At your woman's coolness," said Sir John. "A man would scarce have had
the courage of that cry, which was, for all that, very natural, and I
make no doubt quite true. But remark, madam--since you do me the honour
to consult me gravely--I have no pity for what you call your distresses.
You have been completely selfish, and now reap the consequence. Had you
once thought of your husband, instead of singly thinking of yourself,
you would not now have been alone, a fugitive, with blood upon your
hands, and hearing from a morose old Englishman truth more bitter than
scandal."

"I thank you," she said, quivering. "This is very true. Will you stop
the carriage?"

"No, child," said Sir John, "not until I see you mistress of yourself."

There was a long pause, during which the carriage rolled by rock and
woodland.

"And now," she resumed, with perfect steadiness, "will you consider me
composed? I request you, as a gentleman, to let me out."

"I think you do unwisely," he replied. "Continue, if you please, to use
my carriage."

"Sir John," she said, "if death were sitting on that pile of stones, I
would alight! I do not blame, I thank you; I now know how I appear to
others; but sooner than draw breath beside a man who can so think of me,
I would---- O!" she cried, and was silent.

Sir John pulled the string, alighted, and offered her his hand, but she
refused the help.

The road had now issued from the valleys in which it had been winding,
and come to that part of its course where it runs, like a cornice, along
the brow of the steep northward face of Gruenewald. The place where they
had alighted was at a salient angle; a bold rock and some wind-tortured
pine-trees overhung it from above; far below the blue plains lay forth
and melted into heaven; and before them the road, by a succession of
bold zigzags, was seen mounting to where a tower upon a tal