ON THE ROAD TO ROME.
THERE was not a sound in the room. Romayne stood, looking at the priest
“Did you hear what I said?” Father Benwell asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that I really mean what I said?”
He made no reply—he waited, like a man expecting to hear more.
Father Benwell was alive to the vast importance, at such a moment, of not shrinking from the responsibility which he had assumed. “I see how I distress you,” he said; “but, for your sake, I am bound to speak out. Romayne! the woman whom you have married is the wife of another man. Don’t ask me how I know it—I do know it. You shall have positive proof, as soon as you have recovered. Come! rest a little in the easy-chair.”
He took Romayne’s arm, and led him to the chair, and made him drink some wine. They waited a while. Romayne lifted his head, with a heavy sigh.
“The woman whom I have married is the wife of another man.” He slowly repeated the words to himself—and then looked at Father Benwell.
“Who is the man?” he asked.