For some minutes her struggle continued; but having begun at its highest pitch, it gradually subsided until it settled in a calmness which appeared fixed and awful as the resolution of despair.  With breathless composure she turned round, and put back that part of her dress which concealed her face, except the band on her forehead, which she did not remove; having done this, she turned again, and walked calmly towards Father Philip, with a deadly smile upon her thin lips.  When within a step of where he stood, she paused, and, riveting her eyes upon him, exclaimed,—­

“Who and what am I?  The victim of infidelity and you, the bearer of a cursed existence, the scoff and scorn of the world, the monument of a broken vow and a guilty life, a being scourged by the scorpion lash of conscience, blasted by periodical insanity, pelted by the winter’s storm, scorched by the summer’s heat, withered by starvation, hated by man, and touched into my inmost spirit by the anticipated tortures of future misery.  I have no rest for the sole of my foot, no repose for a head distracted by the contemplation of a guilty life; I am the unclean spirit which walketh to seek rest and findeth none; I am—­what you have made me!  Behold,” she added, holding up the bottle, “this failed, and I live to accuse you.  But no, you are my husband—­though our union was but a guilty form, and I will bury that in silence.  You thought me dead, and you flew to avoid punishment; did you avoid it?  No; the finger of God has written pain and punishment upon your brow.  I have been in all characters, in all shapes, have spoken with the tongue of a peasant, moved in my natural sphere, but my knees were smitten, my brain stricken, and the wild malady which banishes me from society has been upon me for years.  Such I am, and such, I say, have you made me.  As for you, kind-hearted woman, there was nothing in this bottle but pure water.  The interval of reason returned this day, and having remembered glimpses of our conversation, I came to apologise to you, and to explain the nature of my unhappy distemper, and to beg a little bread, which I have not tasted for two days.  I at times conceive myself attended by an evil spirit, shaped out by a guilty conscience, and this is the only familiar which attends me, and by it I have been dogged into madness through every turning of life.  Whilst it lasts I am subject to spasms and convulsive starts which are exceedingly painful.  The lump on my back is the robe I wore when innocent in my peaceful convent.”

The intensity of general interest was now transferred to Father Philip; every face was turned towards him, but he cared not.  A solemn stillness yet prevailed among all present.  From the moment she spoke, her eye drew his with the power of a basilisk.  His pale face became like marble, not a muscle moved; and when she ceased speaking, his bloodshot eyes were still fixed upon her countenance with a gloomy calmness like that which precedes a tempest.  They stood before each other, dreadful counterparts in guilt, for truly his spirit was as dark as hers.