“My heart is my own,” she said, “and I will make no answer to you about it.  Think what you will.  For the rest, it is not true.  I am not what Elizabeth tells you that I am.  I am not Geoffrey Bingham’s mistress.  It is true that I was in his room that night, and it is true that he carried me back to my own.  But it was in my sleep that I went there, not of my own free will.  I awoke there, and fainted when I woke, and then at once he bore me back.”

Elizabeth laughed shrill and loud—­it sounded like the cackle of a fiend.

“In her sleep,” she said; “oh, she went there in her sleep!”

“Yes, Elizabeth, in my sleep.  You do not believe me, but it is true.  You do not wish to believe me.  You wish to bring the sister whom you should love, who has never offended against you by act or word, to utter disgrace and ruin.  In your cowardly spite you have written anonymous letters to Lady Honoria Bingham, to prevail upon her to strike the blow that should destroy her husband and myself, and when you fear that this has failed, you come forward and openly accuse us.  You do this in the name of Christian duty; in the name of love and charity, you believe the worst, and seek to ruin us.  Shame on you, Elizabeth! shame on you! and may the same measure that you have meted out to me never be paid back to you.  We are no longer sisters.  Whatever happens, I have done with you.  Go your ways.”

Elizabeth shrank and quailed beneath her sister’s scorn.  Even her venomous hatred could not bear up against the flash of those royal eyes, and the majesty of that outraged innocence.  She gasped and bit her lip till the blood started, but she said nothing.

Then Beatrice turned to her father, and spoke in another and a pleading voice, stretching out her arms towards him.

“Oh, father,” she said, “at least tell me that you believe me.  Though you may think that I might love to all extremes, surely, having known me so many years, you cannot think that I would lie even for my love’s sake.”

The old man looked wildly round, and shook his head.

“In his room and in his arms,” he said.  “I saw it, it seems.  You, too, who have never been known to walk in your sleep from a child; and you will not say that you do not love him—­the scoundrel.  It is wicked of Elizabeth—­jealousy bitter as the grave.  It is wicked of her to tell the tale; but as it is told, how can I say that I do not believe it?”

Then Beatrice, her cup being full, once more dropped her head, and turned to go.

“Stop,” said Owen Davies in a hoarse voice, and speaking for the first time.  “Hear what I have to say.”

She lifted her eyes.  “With you, Mr. Davies, I have nothing to do; I am not answerable to you.  Go and help your accomplice,” and she pointed to Elizabeth, “to cry this scandal over the whole world.”

“Stop,” he said again.  “I will speak.  I believe that it is true.  I believe that you are Geoffrey Bingham’s mistress, curse him! but I do not care.  I am still willing to marry you.”