Robin uncovered the prize, and drew out a bleeding hand, mangled at the wrist, and blackened as if by fire; one finger decorated with a ring, which Lord William too plainly recognised.  He seized the terrific pledge, and, with a look betokening some deadly purpose, hastened to his wife’s chamber.  He demanded admittance in too peremptory a tone for denial.  His features were still, not a ripple marked the disturbance beneath.  He stood with a calm and tranquil brow by her bed-side; but she read a fearful message in his eye.

“Fair lady, how farest thou?—­I do fear me thou art ill!”

“She’s sick, and in great danger.  You may not disturb her, my lord,” said the nurse, attempting to prevent his too near approach;—­“I pray you depart; your presence afflicts her sorely.”

“Ay, and so it does,” said Lord William, with a strange and hideous laugh.  “I pray thee, lady, let me play the doctor,—­hold out thy hand.”

The lady was still silent.  She turned away her head.  His glance was too withering to endure.

“Nay, then, I must constrain thee, dame.”

She drew out her hand, which Lord William seized with a violent and convulsive grasp.

“I fear me ’tis a sickness unto death; small hope of amendment here.  Give me the other; perchance I may find there more comfort.”

“Oh, my husband, I cannot;—­I am—­I have no strength.”

“Why, thou art grown peevish with thy distemper.  Since ’tis so, I must e’en force thy stubborn will.”

“Alas!  I cannot.”

“If not thy hand, show me thy wrist!—­I have here a match to it, methinks.  O earth—­earth—­hide me in thy womb!—­let the darkness blot me out and this blasting testimony for ever!—­Accursed hag, what hast thou done?”

He seized her by the hair.

“What hast thou promised the fiend?  Tell me,—­or”—­

“I have, oh, I fear I have,—­consented to the compact!”

“How far doth it bind thee?”

“My soul—­my better part!”

“Thy better part?—­thy worse!  A loathsome ulcer, reeking with the stench from the pit!  Better have given thy body to the stake, than have let in one unhallowed desire upon thy soul.  How far does thy contract reach?”

“All interest I can claim.  His part that created it I could not give, not being mine to yield.”

“Lost! lost!  Thou hast, indeed, sold thyself to perdition!  I’ll purge this earth of witchery;—­I’ll make their carcases my weapon’s sheath;—­hence inglorious scabbard!” He flung away the sheath.  Twining her dark hair about his fingers—­“Die!—­impious, polluted wretch!  This blessed earth loathes thee,—­the grave’s holy sanctuary will cast thee out!  Yon glorious sun would smite thee should I refrain!”

He raised his sword—­a gleam of triumph seemed to flash from her eye, as though she were eager for the blow; but the descending weapon was stayed, and by no timid hand.