“Plase your Reverence,” said Bartley, “that’s the woman,” nodding significantly towards her as he spoke, but without looking at her person, lest the evil eye he dreaded so much might meet his, and give him “the blast.”

The dreaded female, on seeing the house in such a crowded state, started, paused, and glanced with some terror at the persons assembled.  Her dress was not altered since her last visit; but her countenance, though more meagre and emaciated, expressed but little of the unsettled energy which then flashed from her eyes, and distorted her features by the depth of that mysterious excitement by which she had been agitated.  Her countenance was still muffled as before, the awful protuberance rose from her shoulders, and the same band which Mrs Sullivan had alluded to during their interview, was bound about the upper part of her forehead.

She had already stood upwards of two minutes, during which the fall of a feather might be heard, yet none bade God bless her—­no kind hand was extended to greet her—­no heart warmed in affection towards her; on the contrary, every eye glanced at her, as a being marked with enmity towards God.  Blanched faces and knit brows, the signs of fear and hatred, were turned upon her; her breath was considered pestilential, and her touch paralysis.  There she stood, proscribed, avoided, and hunted like a tigress, all fearing to encounter, yet wishing to exterminate her!  Who could she be?—­or what had she done, that the finger of the Almighty marked her out for such a fearful weight of vengeance?

Father Philip rose and advanced a few steps, until he stood confronting her.  His person was tall, his features dark, severe, and solemn:  and when the nature of the investigation about to take place is considered, it need not be wondered at, that the moment was, to those present, one of deep and impressive interest—­such as a visible conflict between a supposed champion of God and a supernatural being was calculated to excite.

“Woman,” said he, in his deep stern voice, “tell me who and what you are, and why you assume a character of such a repulsive and mysterious nature, when it can entail only misery, shame, and persecution on yourself?  I conjure you, in the name of Him after whose image you are created, to speak truly!”

He paused, and the tall figure stood mute before him.  The silence was dead as death—­every breath was hushed—­and the persons assembled stood immovable as statues!  Still she spoke not; but the violent heaving of her breast evinced the internal working of some dreadful struggle.  Her face before was pale—­it was now ghastly; her lips became blue, and her eyes vacant.

“Speak!” said he; “I conjure you in the name of the power by whom you live!”

It is probable that the agitation under which she laboured was produced by the severe effort made to sustain the unexpected trial she had to undergo.