"You are late—very late," she rejoined, "and I have been ill. I fancied myself dying."
"What has been the matter with you sweet, Meg?" asked Parravicin, approaching the bed, and seating himself behind the curtains.
"I know not," she replied. "I was seized with a dreadful headache about an hour ago. It has left me; but I have a strange oppression at my chest, and breathe with difficulty."
"You alarm me, my love," rejoined Parravicin. "Were you ever attacked thus before?"
"Never," she replied. "Oh! Disbrowe! if you knew how I have longed for your return, you would blame yourself for your absence. You have grown sadly neglectful of late. I suspect you love some one else. If I thought so———"
"What if you thought so, Margaret?" demanded Parravicin.
"What!" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, raising herself in the bed. "I would requite your perfidy—terribly requite it!"
"Then learn that Captain Disbrowe is faithless," cried Parravicin, throwing back the curtains, and disclosing himself. "Learn that he loves another, and is with her now. Learn that he cares so little for you, that he has surrendered you to me."
"What do I hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Disbrowe. "Who are you, and what brings you here?"
"You may guess my errand from my presence," replied the knight. "I am called Sir Paul Parravicin, and am the most devoted of your admirers."