on, and in boiling blood, I might have been capable of doing
her a deadly mischief, but bravely and openly, as the sons and daughters
of my fiery race have done such things before this. But to go to her
chamber in the dead of night, and in darkness and secrecy--! No! I could
not have done that, if she had been ten times the enemy she was. Is
there one here who believes that the daughter of Bertram Berners could
be guilty of that or any other base deed?" she demanded, as her proud
glance swept around upon the faces of her assembled friends and
neighbors.

But their averted eyes too sorrowfully answered her question.

Then she turned to her husband and lowered her voice to an almost
imploring tone as she inquired:

"Lyon Berners, do YOU believe me guilty?"

He looked up, and their eyes met. If he had really believed her guilty
he did not now. He answered briefly and firmly:

"No, Sybil! Heaven knows that I do not. But oh! my dear wife! explain,
if you can, how that dagger came into your possession, how that blood
came upon your hands; and, above all, why this most unhappy lady should
have charged you with having murdered her."

"At your desire, and for the satisfaction of the few dear old friends
whom I see among this unbelieving crowd, the friends who would deeply
grieve if I should either do or suffer wrong, _I will_ speak. But if it
were not for you and for them, I would die before I would deign to
defend myself from a charge that is at once so atrocious and so
preposterous--so monstrous," said Sybil, turning a gaze full of haughty
defiance upon those who stood there before her face, and dared to
believe her guilty.

A stern voice spoke up from that crowd.

"Mr. Lyon Berners, attend to this. A lady lies murdered in your house.
By whom she has been so murdered we do not know. But I tell you that
every moment in which you delay in sending for the officers of justice
to investigate this affair, compromises you and me and all who stand by
and silently submit to this delay, as accessories, after the fact."

Lyon Berners turned towards the speaker, a grave and stern old man of
nearly eighty years, a retired judge, who had come to the mask ball
escorting his grand-daughters.

"An instant, Judge Basham. Pardon us, if in this dismay some things are
forgotten. The coroner shall be summoned immediately. Captain Pendleton,
will you oblige me by despatching a messenger to Coroner Taylor at
Blackville?" he then inquired,