Lord Hope attempted to speak, but his white lips seemed frozen together.
"I am Hannah Yates, the nurse of that murdered lady; the woman who has given fourteen years of her life, rather than have scandal fall on the husband her foster-child loved, or the awful truth reach her dear old mistress, who died, thank God, without knowing it."
"And you listen, my lord, to this woman, a confessed murderer, and, no doubt, an escaped convict?"
"He must listen, and he must believe! How did I know that he was in my lady's house that night, and the moment of his leaving it? How did I know the very words he used in attempting to force the child from her? No human being but himself and the poor lady, whose lips were cold within an hour, knew of anything that passed between the husband and wife the last time they ever met on earth."
"But you might have overheard—no doubt were listening—if my lord was indeed in that place at all. This is no evidence, even if a woman, convicted by her own confession of a crime she now seeks to cast upon another, could bear witness."
Rachael Closs spoke out clearly now, and her eyes, shining with the ferocity of a wild animal at bay, turned full upon the old woman who accused her.
The old woman put a hand into her bosom and drew out a small poniard. Rachael Closs gave a sharp gasp, and snatched at the poniard, but the old woman held it firmly.
"Lord Hope, this has been in your hands a hundred times. When did you part with it? To what person did you give it? Your crest is on the handle; her blood rusts the blade."
Lord Hope lifted both hands to conceal the horror that was on his face, to shut out the weapon from his sight.
"Oh! my God! my God! spare me more of this!"