“Merciful Virgin!” cried Montreal, starting back as that face gleamed upon him:  “is it possible?  It is she:—­it is—­”

He sprung forward, and stood right before the old woman, who seemed equally surprised, though more dismayed, at the sight of Montreal.

“I have sought thee for years,” said the Knight, first breaking the silence; “years, long years,—­thy conscience can tell thee why.”

“Mine, man of blood!” cried the female, trembling with rage or fear; “darest thou talk of conscience?  Thou, the dishonourer—­the robber—­the professed homicide!  Thou, disgrace to knighthood and to birth!  Thou, with the cross of chastity and of peace upon thy breast!  Thou talk of conscience, hypocrite!—­thou?”

“Lady—­lady!” said Montreal, deprecatingly, and almost quailing beneath the fiery passion of that feeble woman, “I have sinned against thee and thine.  But remember all my excuses!—­early love—­fatal obstacles—­rash vow—­irresistible temptation!  Perhaps,” he added, in a more haughty tone, “perhaps, yet, I may have the power to atone my error, and wring, with mailed hand, from the successor of St Peter, who hath power to loose as to bind—­”

“Perjured and abandoned!” interrupted the female; “dost thou dream that violence can purchase absolution, or that thou canst ever atone the past?—­a noble name disgraced, a father’s broken heart and dying curse!  Yes, that curse, I hear it now! it rings upon me thrillingly, as when I watched the expiring clay! it cleaves to thee—­it pursues thee—­it shall pierce thee through thy corselet—­it shall smite thee in the meridian of thy power!  Genius wasted—­ambition blasted—­penitence deferred—­a life of brawls, and a death of shame—­thy destruction the offspring of thy crime!—­To this, to this, an old man’s curse hath doomed thee!—­And thou art doomed!”

These words were rather shrieked than spoken:  and the flashing eye, the lifted hand, the dilated form of the speaker—­the hour—­the solitude of the ruins around—­all conspired to give to the fearful execration the character of prophecy.  The warrior, against whose undaunted breast a hundred spears had shivered in vain, fell appalled and humbled to the ground.  He seized the hem of his fierce denouncer’s robe, and cried, in a choked and hollow voice, “Spare me! spare me!”

“Spare thee!” said the unrelenting crone; “hast thou ever spared man in thy hatred, or woman in thy lust?  Ah, grovel in the dust!—­crouch—­crouch!—­wild beast as thou art! whose sleek skin and beautiful hues have taught the unwary to be blind to the talons that rend, and the grinders that devour;—­crouch, that the foot of the old and impotent may spurn thee!”

“Hag!” cried Montreal, in the reaction of sudden fury and maddened pride, springing up to the full height of his stature.  “Hag! thou hast passed the limits to which, remembering who thou art, my forbearance gave thee licence.  I had well-nigh forgot that thou hadst assumed my part—­I am the Accuser!  Woman!—­the boy!—­shrink not! equivocate not! lie not!—­thou wert the thief!”