He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very weak; and advancing towards her as the retiring keeper shut the door upon him and his guest in that sad place, he put forward his left hand (for the right was wounded and bandaged), and he would have taken that kind one of his mistress, which had done so many offices of friendship for him for so many years.

But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back her hood, and leaning against the great stanchioned door which the gaoler had just closed upon them.  Her face was ghastly white, as Esmond saw it, looking from the hood; and her eyes, ordinarily so sweet and tender, were fixed on him with such a tragic glance of woe and anger, as caused the young man, unaccustomed to unkindness from that person, to avert his own glances from her face.

“And this, Mr. Esmond,” she said, “is where I see you; and ’tis to this you have brought me!”

“You have come to console me in my calamity, madam,” said he (though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address her, his emotions at beholding her so overpowered him).

She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling, looking out at him from her black draperies, with her small white hands clasped together, and quivering lips and hollow eyes.

“Not to reproach me,” he continued after a pause.  “My grief is sufficient as it is.”

“Take back your hand—­do not touch me with it!” she cried.  “Look! there’s blood on it!”

“I wish they had taken it all,” said Esmond; “if you are unkind to me.”

“Where is my husband?” she broke out.  “Give me back my husband, Henry.  Why did you stand by at midnight and see him murdered?  Why did the traitor escape who did it?  You, the champion of your house, who offered to die for us!  You that he loved and trusted, and to whom I confided him—­you that vowed devotion and gratitude, and I believed you—­yes, I believed you—­why are you here, and my noble Francis gone?  Why did you come among us?  You have only brought us grief and sorrow; and repentance, bitter, bitter repentance, as a return for our love and kindness.  Did I ever do you a wrong, Henry?  You were but an orphan child when I first saw you—­when he first saw you, who was so good, and noble, and trusting.  He would have had you sent away, but, like a foolish woman, I besought him to let you stay.  And you pretended to love us, and we believed you—­and you made our house wretched, and my husband’s heart went from me:  and I lost him through you—­I lost him—­the husband of my youth, I say.  I worshipped him:  you know I worshipped him—­and he was changed to me.  He was no more my Francis of old—­my dear, dear soldier.  He loved me before he saw you; and I loved him.  Oh, God is my witness how I loved him!  Why did he not send you from among us?  ’Twas only his kindness, that could refuse me nothing then.  And, young as you were—­yes, and weak and alone—­there was evil, I knew there was evil in keeping you.