She tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her strength failed her, and she sunk back exhausted on the pillow.
“Listen, Basil Hurlhurst,” she said, fixing her strangely bright eyes upon his noble, care-worn face; “this is the secret I have carried in this bosom for nearly seventeen years: ‘Your golden-haired young wife died on that terrible stormy night you brought her to Whitestone Hall;’ but listen, Basil, ‘the child did not!’ It was stolen from our midst on the night the fair young mother died.”
CHAPTER XXX.
“My God!” cried Basil Hurlhurst, starting to his feet, pale as death, his eyes fairly burning, and the veins standing out on his forehead like cords, “you do not know what you say, woman! My little child––Evalia’s child and mine––not dead, but stolen on the night its mother died! My God! it can not be; surely you are mad!” he shrieked.
“It is true, master,” she moaned, “true as Heaven.”
“You knew my child, for whom I grieved for seventeen long years, was stolen––not dead––and dared to keep the knowledge 149 from me?” he cried, passionately, beside himself with rage, agony and fear. “Tell me quickly, then, where I shall find my child!” he cried, breathlessly.
“I do not know, master,” she moaned.
For a few moments Basil Hurlhurst strode up and down the room like a man bereft of reason.