“I forgive you the doubt, my Lord—­unjust though it be—­because your mind is disturbed; but were you calm enough to view the matter as it really is, you would perceive that my resolution has nothing in it inconsistent with affection for you; but rather that my very love for you compels me to the step.  What I propose is best for both of us.  The remedy you suggest would work our ruin here and hereafter; would drive us from society, and render us hateful to each other.  My soul revolts at it.  And though I myself have received a mortal affront from your wife’s mother, Lady Lake; though she has poured forth all the malice of which she is capable upon my devoted head; yet I would rather forgive her—­rather sue for pity from her than go the fearful length you propose.  No, William.  The pang of parting from you will indeed be terrible, but it must be endured.  Fate wills it so, and it is therefore useless to struggle against it.”

“O, recall those words, Frances!” cried the young nobleman, throwing himself at her feet, and clasping her hands passionately.  “Recall them, I implore’ of you.  In uttering them you pronounce my doom—­a doom more dreadful than death, which would be light in comparison with losing you.  Plunge this sword to my heart,” he exclaimed, plucking the shining weapon from his side, and presenting it to her.  “Free me from my misery at once, but do not condemn me to lingering agony.”

“Rise, William! rise, I pray of you,” ejaculated the Countess, overcome by the intensity of his emotion, “and put up your sword.  The love you display for me deserves an adequate return, and it shall meet it.  Come what will, I will not leave you.  But, O! let us not plunge deeper in guilt if it can be avoided.”

“But how can it be avoided?” cried Lord Roos.  “Will they listen to our prayers?  Will they pity us?  Will they hesitate at our destruction?”

“I know not—­I know not,” replied the Countess, bewildered; “but I stand appalled before the magnitude of the offence.”

“They will not spare us,” pursued Lord Roos; “and therefore we cannot spare them.”

“In my turn I bend to you, William,” said the Countess, sinking on her knee before him, and taking his hand.  “By the love you bear me, I beseech you not to harm your wife!  We have wronged her deeply—­let us not have her death to answer for.  If the blow must fall, let it be upon the mother’s head.  I have less compassion for her.”

“Lady Lake deserves no compassion,” replied Lord Roos, raising the Countess, and embracing her tenderly, “for she is the cause of all this mischief.  It is to her agency we owe the storm which threatens us with ruin.  But things have gone too far now to show compunction for either of them.  Our security demands that both should be removed.”

“I may now say as you have just said, William, and with, far greater reason,” cried the Countess, “that you love me not, or you would not refuse my request.”