"I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still."
"If I thought so—" cried the knight fiercely; "but this is idle," he added, suddenly checking himself. "Aliva, your child perished with its father."
"And by whom were they both destroyed?" demanded his sister, raising herself by a painful effort, and regarding him with a searching glance.
"By the avenger of his family's dishonour—by your brother," he replied, coolly.
"Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!"
"A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!"
"It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. "I will swear it upon the cross!"
"His name, then?" demanded the knight. "Tell me that, and I will believe you."
"Not now—not now!" she returned, with a shudder. "When I am dead you will learn it. Do not disquiet yourself. You will not have to wait long for the information. Rowland," she added, in an altered tone, "I am certain I shall not live many days. And if you treat me in this way, you will have my death to answer for, as well as the deaths of my husband and child. Let us part in peace. We shall take an eternal farewell of each other."
"Be it so!" rejoined Sir Rowland, with concentrated fury; "but before we do part, I am resolved to know the name of your pretended husband!"