“Oh, Mr. Estabrook!” she exclaimed when she had swallowed the stimulant, “I lied to you. I once lied to you very sore, as you shall see.”
“Enough—enough!” he cried. “What of her—my wife? She is still alive?”
“Have no fear,” replied the old woman. “It’s not death that’s with us, I’m believing.”
The poor fellow wrung his hands.
“But, by the Saints, what I’ll tell you now is true,” she said, putting her hands first on his knees and then on mine. “Look! The light is shining on my face and you can read it if you like. Sure, I’m praying that you may use the knowledge to save us all.”
“Go on,” said the young man hoarsely.
And thereupon, in an awkward, jerking manner, which I can only hope to suggest in the repetition, she told a tale of strange mingling of good and evil. This was her story....
| BOOK IV A PUPIL OF THE GREAT WELSTOKE |