"You have gone mad—both of you," Mrs. Le Roy cried out, fretfully. "This is your daughter whom you sent to us, and whom my son married. How dare you deny it? Speak to them, St. Leon—speak to them, Beatrix. Do not let them deny you! It is monstrous, it is terrible!"
"She is no child of ours. She will not claim to be. She is a miserable impostor. Look at her guilty face," said Mr. Gordon, pointing a scornful finger at the white face that did indeed look shame-stricken and full of guilty woe.
St. Leon had never taken his eyes from that beautiful, terrified face. He spoke to her now, and his voice sounded hollow and stern.
"Beatrix, what do they mean? Is it true that you are not Mr. Gordon's daughter?"
The white hands slipped from his arm, and she fell on her knees before him, lifting up her woful white face pleadingly.
"Oh, St. Leon, pity and forgive me," she moaned, appealingly. "It is true, and I have bitterly deceived you. I am not Beatrix Gordon!"
[CHAPTER XL.]
A silence like death fell for a moment on the group that closed around that pathetic kneeling figure with its white uplifted face and streaming golden hair. St. Leon's voice broke it first—hoarse and terribly stern: