“Then she is not mad, after all!  I thought she mistook you for some one else.  If you know her, you have the best right to deal with her.  Shall these men take her to Kingsland Court?”

“Not for ten thousand worlds!” Sir Jasper cried, impetuously.  “The woman is nothing—­less than nothing—­to me.  I knew her once, years ago.  I thought her dead and buried; hence the shock her sudden entrance gave me.  A lunatic asylum is the proper place for such as she.  Let Mr. Green send her there, and the sooner the better.”

The Reverend Cyrus Green looked with grave, suspicious eyes for a moment at the leaden face of the speaker.

“There is wrong and mystery about this,” he thought—­“a dark mystery of guilt.  This woman is mad, but her wrongs have driven her mad, and you, Sir Jasper Kingsland, are her wronger.”

“It shall be as you say, Sir Jasper,” he said, aloud; “that is, if I find this poor creature has no friends.  Are you aware whether she has any?”

“I tell you I know nothing of her!” the baronet cried, with fierce impatience.  “What should I know of such a wretch as that?”

“More than you dare tell, Sir Jasper Kingsland!” cried a high, ringing voice, as a young woman rushed impetuously into the church and up the aisle.  “Coward and liar!  False, perjured wretch!  You are too white-livered a hound even to tell the truth!  What should you know of such a wretch as that, forsooth!  Double-dyed traitor and dastard!  Look me in the face and tell me you don’t know her!”

Every one shrunk in terror and dismay; Sir Jasper stood as a man might stand suddenly struck by lightning.  And if looks were lightning, the blazing eyes of the young woman might have blasted him where he stood.  A tall and handsome young woman, with black eyes of fire, streaming, raven hair, and a brown gypsy face.

“Who are you, in mercy’s name?” cried the Reverend Cyrus Green.

“I am the daughter of this wretch, as your baronet yonder is pleased to call my mad mother.  Yes, Mr. Green, she is my mother.  If you want to know who my father is, you had better ask Sir Jasper Kingsland!”

“It is false!” the baronet cried, “I know nothing of you or your father.  I never set eyes on you before.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” the Reverend Cyrus Green cried, imploringly.  “For Heaven’s sake, young woman, don’t make a scene before all these listeners.  We will have your mother conveyed into the vestry until she recovers; and if she ever recovers, no time is to be lost in attending to her.  Sir Jasper, I think the child had better be sent home immediately.  My lady will wonder at the delay.”

A faint wail from the infant lying in the nurse’s arms seconded the suggestion.  That feeble cry and the mention of his wife acted as a magic spell upon the baronet.

“Your mad intruders have startled us into forgetting everything else.  Proceed, nurse.  Lady Helen, take my arm.  Mr. Carlyon, see to Mildred.  The child looks frightened to death, and little wonder!”