“O, if this tale be true, I have no escape from misery!” exclaimed Aveline.  “And it wears the semblance of probability.”

“I take upon me to declare it to be false,” cried Anthony Rocke.

“Another such insolent speech shall cost thee thy life, sirrah!” cried Sir Giles, fiercely.

“Read over the paper again, my dear young lady,” said Dame Sherborne.  “You may, perhaps, find something in it not yet discovered, which may help you to a better understanding of your father’s wishes.”

“Ay, read it!—­read it!” cried the old usurer, giving her the paper.  “You will perceive in what energetic terms your father enjoins compliance on your part with his commands; and what awful denunciations he attaches to your disobedience.  Read it, I say, and fancy he is speaking to you from the grave in these terms—­’Take this man for thy husband, O my daughter, and take my blessing with him.  Reject him, and my curse shall alight upon thy head.’”

But Aveline was too much engrossed to heed him.  Suddenly her eye caught something she had not previously noticed, and she exclaimed,—­“I have detected the stratagem.  I knew this authority could never be committed to you.”

“What mean you, fair mistress?” cried Sir Francis, surprised and alarmed.  “My name may not appear upon the face of the document; but, nevertheless, I am the person referred to by it.”

“The document itself disproves your assertion,” cried Aveline, with exultation.

“How so?” demanded Sir Giles, uneasily.

“Why, see you not that he to whom my father designed to give my hand was named Osmond Mounchensey?”

“Osmond Mounchensey!” exclaimed Sir Giles, starting.

“This is pure invention!” cried Sir Francis.  “There is no such name on the paper—­no name at all, in short—­nor could there be any, for reasons I will presently explain.”

“Let your own eyes convince you to the contrary,” she rejoined, extending the paper to him and revealing to his astounded gaze and to that of his partner, who looked petrified with surprise, the name plainly written as she had described it.

“How came it there?” cried Sir Giles, as soon as he could command himself.

“I cannot say,” replied Sir Francis.  “I only know it was not there when I—­that is, when I received it.  It must be Clement Lanyere’s handiwork,” he added in a whisper.

“I see not how that can be,” replied the other, in a like low tone.  “The alteration must have been made since it has been in your possession.  It could not have escaped my observation.”

“Nor mine,” cried Sir Francis. “’T is passing strange!”

“Your infamous project is defeated,” cried Aveline.  “Let the rightful claimant appear, and it will be time enough to consider what I will do.—­But I can hold no further discourse with you, and command your instant departure.”

“And think you we mean to return empty-handed, fair mistress?” said Sir Giles, resuming all his wonted audacity.  “Be not deceived.  By fair means or foul you shall be the bride of Sir Francis Mitchell.  I have sworn it, and I will keep my oath!”