Red Hand trembled with the emotion that swept over him.
“Lady,” he said, his voice shaking, “I would not desecrate the resting place of the dead, yet I would know why you so jealously guard the grave of Ben Talbot!” Though he shook, he spoke in his deep, distinct tones.
As he commenced speaking a sudden change was visible in the woman; her form bent forward and her ear was turned as if to catch every word, while her right forefinger was pressed against her lips.
Then in a voice that was nothing more than a hoarse whisper she said:
“I guard his grave because I loved him. Did you know Ben Talbot?”
“Aye, did I, lady! He wrecked my life!”
“Your life! Ha, ha, ha! I know you now, Vincent Vernon; I know you now in spite of the years that have swept over your accursed soul,” almost shrieked the woman, raising both hands wildly above her head.
“Good God! Grace, has the grave given you up or are you a phantom from the shadow land?” cried Red Hand, starting toward the woman.
“Back, you red-handed murderer! Back, I say, back! And do not pollute this sacred spot. No, I am not from the grave, and I lied to you when I said I would take my life. Ha, ha, ha!—no, why do I laugh? It is hollow mockery for me to laugh, and—but what do you here, thou accursed? Ha! Now I know by whose hand poor Ben fell. Away! Away! No, no, no, do not go, but stay until I tear from you your coward heart.”