Berenice suddenly ceased to struggle, and became perfectly quiet. Hannah was resolved not to be deceived, and held her firmly as ever.
"Hannah," said the countess, "I begin to see how it is that you think me mad. You, a Christian maid, and I, a Jewish matron, do not understand each other. We think, and look, and speak from different points of view. You think I mean to say that the child upon the bed is the son of my own bosom!"
"You said so, my lady."
"No, I said he was my son—I meant my son by marriage and by adoption."
"I do not understand you, madam."
"Well, I fear you don't. I will try to explain. He is"—the lady's voice faltered and broke down—"he is my husband's son, and so, his mother being dead, he becomes mine," breathed Berenice, in a faint voice.
"Madam!" exclaimed Hannah, drawing back and reddening to the very edge of her hair.
"He is the son of Herman Brudenell, and so—"
"My lady! how dare you say such a thing as that?" fiercely interrupted Hannah.
"Because, oh, Heaven! it is true," moaned Berenice; "it is true, Hannah! Would to the Lord it were not!"