that the child is Gabrielle
Desmaret's daughter."

Arabella reared her crest as a serpent before it strikes. "Gabrielle's
daughter! You think so. Her child that I sheltered! Her child for whom
I have just pleaded to you! Hers!" She suddenly became silent. Evidently
that idea had never before struck her; evidently it now shocked her;
evidently something was passing through her mind which did not allow
that idea to be dismissed. As Darrell was about to address her, she
exclaimed abruptly: "No! say no more now. You may hear from me again
should I learn what may decide at least this doubt one way or the other.
Farewell, sir."

"Not yet. Permit me to remind you that you have saved the life of a man
whose wealth is immense."

"Mr. Darrell, my wealth in relation to my wants is perhaps immense as
yours, for I do not spend what I possess."

"But this unhappy outlaw, whom you would save from himself, can
henceforth be to you but a burthen and a charge. After what has passed
to-night, I do tremble to think that penury may whisper other houses to
rob, other lives to menace. Let me, then, place at your disposal, to be
employed in such mode as you deem the best, a sum that may suffice to
secure an object which we have in common."

"No, Mr. Darrell," said Arabella, fiercely; "whatever he be, never with
my consent shall Jasper Losely be beholden to you for alms. If money can
save him from shame and a dreadful death, that money shall be mine. I
have said it. And, hark you, Mr. Darrell, what is repentance without
atonement? I say not that I repent; but I do know that I seek to atone."

The iron-grey robe fluttered an instant, and then vanished from the
room.

When Alban Morley returned to the library, he saw Darrell at the farther
corner of the room, on his knees. Well might Guy Darrell thank Heaven
for the mercies vouchsafed to him that night. Life preserved? Is that
all? Might life yet be bettered and gladdened? Was there aught in the
grim woman's words that might bequeath thoughts which reflection would
ripen into influences over action?--aught that might suggest the cases
in which, not ignobly, Pity might subjugate Scorn? In the royal abode of
that Soul, does Pride only fortify Honour?--is it but the mild king, not
the imperial despot? Would it blind, as its rival, the Reason? Would it
chain, as a rebel, the Heart? Would it man the dominions, that might
be serene, by the treasures it wastes-by the wars it provokes?
Self-kno