“This is good!” said Matilda.  “To see you writhe thus, under the wound inflicted upon your vanity, is some small atonement for the base violation of your oath; yet what question would you ask, the solution of which can so much import one about to figure on the scaffold for a crime he has not even had the courage to commit?”

The taunting manner in which the concluding part of the sentence was conveyed, had the effect of restoring Gerald in some degree to himself, and he said with considerable firmness: 

“What I would ask is of yourself,—­namely, the relationship, if any, you bear to those who lie within the mound on which I beheld you kneeling, on the night of your first attempt on Colonel Forrester’s life.”

“The very recollection of that ill-timed intrusion would prevent me from satisfying your curiosity, did not something whisper to me that, in so doing, I shall add another pang to those you already experience,” returned the American with bitter sarcasm.

“You are right,” said Gerald hurriedly; “my miseries need but the assurance of your connexion with those mouldering bones to be indeed complete.”

“Then,” said Matilda eagerly, and half raising her head, “your cup of misery may yet admit of increase.  My mother and my father’s mother both sleep within that grave.”

“How knew you this?” demanded Gerald quickly.  “Instinct could not have guided you to the spot, and by your own admission you were taken from the place of your home while yet a mere child.”

“Not instinct, but my father Desborough, pointed out the spot, as he had long previously acquainted me with the history of my birth.”

“One question more—­your grandmother’s name?”

“Mad Ellen she was called, an English soldier’s wife, who died in giving birth to my father—­and now that you are answered, leave me.”

“Almighty Providence,” aspirated Gerald, in tones of inconceivable agony; “it is then as I had feared, and this woman has Destiny chosen to accomplish my ruin.”

He quitted the sofa and paced up and down the room in a state of mind bordering on distraction.  The past crowded upon his mind in all the confused manner of a dream, and amid the chaos of contending feelings by which he was beset, one idea only was distinct—­namely, that the wretched woman before him had been but the agent of Fate in effecting his destruction.  Strange as it may appear, the idea, so far from increasing the acerbity of his feelings, had the tendency to soften his heart towards her.  He beheld in her but a being whose actions had been fated like his own, and although every vestige of passion had fled—­even although her surpassing beauty had lost its subjugating influence, his heart yearned towards her as one who, wrecked on the same shore, had some claim to his sympathy and compassion.  All that was now left them was to make their peace with God, since with man their final account would be so speedily closed, and with a view to impress her with a sense of the religious aid from which alone they could hope for consolation, he again seated himself at her side on the edge of the sofa.