"Yes," she replied. "It is your own Adéle, the little girl you vowed to love; Adéle whom you married two years ago in the little French village in the Pas de Calais. Oh, Arthur! how could you desert me?"
"I—I never married you," he answered, stammering a little.
"Indeed you did."
"It was a mock marriage."
"The good curé who united us is alive. He will bear evidence that I am your wife. I, Adéle Bellefontaine, am in reality Lady Maltravers."
"It is false."
"Oh! do not repudiate me, for, darling, I love you," she pleaded. "If you have forgotten me, I can never forget you."
"How did you find me out?"
"I read an account of your duel in the papers; they said you were ill and suffering; I walked fifty miles to come and nurse you, because I was too poor to ride."
"You shall have money to go home again, foolish girl," said Maltravers.