"Who speaks of Benedetto!" said a hoarse voice.
Every one started. Before them stood the mad woman in torn and shabby garments, with her white hair in disorder. And as Sanselme looked up he saw her. A terrible cry escaped from his lips, and he recoiled with staring eyes riveted on the spectre before him.
"It is she!" he murmured. "The dead, it seems, are permitted to revisit the earth!"
The woman slowly approached Sanselme, and looked at him closely. She came so near that she could touch him, and then with a wild laugh, she screamed:
"The convict! Yes, it is he!"
And then, shuddering from head to foot, she repeated, "Benedetto! Who speaks of Benedetto?"
"What does all this mean?" asked Fanfar.
"I will tell you," said Sanselme, averting his eyes. "Yes, it is true, I am an escaped convict. This woman is right, but I never did her any harm. Look at me, woman! Tell me, was it I who struck you?"
The mad woman tore away the rags that covered the terrible scar on her breast.
"Oh! how it hurts," she said, moaning, "and how hot my head is."