"Ha, never say so!" cried Sir Jocelyn, "not touch thee? art not mine own beloved Mellent?"
"Nay, I am the lady Winfrida—"
"Thou—Winfrida the rich and proud—in these rags? Thou, Winfrida the
Fair?—thy raven hair—"
"O, my hair, my lord? 'twas gold, 'tis black and shall be gold again, but I am that same Winfrida."
"But—but I have seen Winfrida betimes in Mortain ere now."
"Nay, then, didst but look at her, my lord, for thine eyes saw only the noble Helen's beauty. Alas! that ever I was born, for that I am that Winfrida who, for ambition's sake and wicked pride, did a most vile thing—O my lord Beltane, as thou art strong, be pitiful—as thou art deeply wronged, be greatly merciful."
"How—how—mean you?" said Beltane, slow-speaking and breathing deep.
"Lord—'twas I—O, how may I tell it? My lord Beltane, upon thy wedding night did I, with traitorous hand, infuse a potent drug within the loving-cup, whereby our lady Duchess fell into a swoon nigh unto death. And—while she lay thus, I took from her the marriage-robe—the gown of blue and silver. Thereafter came I, with my henchman Ulf the Strong and—found thee sleeping in the chapel. So Ulf—at my command—smote thee and—bound thee fast, and, ere the dawn, I brought thee—to Garthlaxton—O my lord!"
"Thou—? It was—thou?"
"I do confess it, my lord Beltane—traitor to thee, and base traitor to her—"