"'Tis only a scratch; would that it had been through his breast. What ails thee?" he asked in alarm, as he saw my face. "What is it, that thou dost look as though thou hadst seen thy end?"
"Yes, my end, lad," I repeated, "it is in yonder paper."
He picked it up from the floor and read it through.
"'Tis false!" he cried, the red blood of indignation dyeing his cheeks. "It is only some trick of that fiend Dunraven."
"No," I answered, "'tis her paper, her crest, her handwriting, even the very perfume that she uses hangs about it. It must be true—I would not have believed it had I not seen the paper with mine own eyes. I loved her with a love that knew no distrust, faithfully, devotedly. The night, calm and silent, was not purer or more innocent than her soul; the stars as they peeped out from the distant sky, were no brighter than her eyes, azure, deep, serene; the gold of the sunset was like the glimmer of her hair; the fleecy clouds, white and snowy, were not lovelier than her neck and throat, and yet—yet—she weds Dunraven. Why hast thou forsaken me?—Margaret! Oh, Margaret!"
The lad looked at me, the great tears of pity running down his cheeks.
"Come," he sobbed, "come, we must go," and he led me by the hand from the room.
My mind, numbed by this last great shock, refused to serve me, and I was as one in a trance. Dimly I saw the room, heard the babble of Oliver's voice, my feet moved mechanically under me, but it was as though I were in a dream—a hideous and frightful phantom of the night that in a moment would pass away, and I would wake and find it false.
Oliver chatted on: