“How can I comply with it?” he rejoined.  “Nothing were done, if only partly done.  Know you the charge that Lady Roos means to bring against you?  Though alike false and improbable, it is one to find easy credence with the King; and it has been framed with that view.  You will understand this, when I tell you what it is.  In this letter,” he added, picking up the paper he had thrown down, and unfolding it, “she accuses you of practising sorcery to enslave my affections.  She declares you have bewitched me; and that she has proof of the manner in which it was done, and of the sinful compact you have entered into for the purpose.”

“O William! this is false—­utterly false!” exclaimed the Countess, in despair.

“I know it,” he rejoined.  “You have no need to practise other enchantments with me than those you possess by nature.  But what I tell you will show you the extent of their malice, and steel your heart, as it hath already steeled mine, against them.”

“But this accusation is too monstrous.  It will not be believed,” cried the Countess.

“Monstrous as it is, it is more likely to be believed—­more certain to be maintained—­than the other which they lay at our door.  We may deny all their assertions; may intimidate or give the lie to the witnesses they may produce against us; may stamp as forgeries your letters which have unluckily fallen into their hands; but if this charge of witchcraft be once brought against you, it will not fall to the ground.  The King will listen to it, because it flatters his prejudices; and even my voice would fail to save you from condemnation—­from the stake.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Lady Exeter spreading her hands before her eyes, as if to exclude some dreadful object.  “O to live in an age when such enormities can be perpetrated! when such frightful weapons can be used against the innocent—­for I am innocent, at least of this offence.  All seems against me; all doors of escape—­save one—­closed.  And whither does that door lead?  To the Bottomless Pit, if there be truth in aught we are told by Heaven.”

Lord Roos seemed unable or unwilling to reply; and a deep pause ensued for a few moments, during which the guilty pair shunned each other’s regards.  It was broken at length by Lady Exeter, who said, reproachfully, “You should have burnt my letters, William.  Without them, they would have had no evidence against me.  Imprudent that you were, you have destroyed me!”

“Reproach me not, Prances,” he rejoined.  “I admit my imprudence, and blame myself severely for it.  But I could not part with a line I had received from you.  I inclosed the letters in a little coffer, which I deposited in a secret drawer of that cabinet, as in a place of perfect safety.  The coffer and its contents mysteriously disappeared.  How it was purloined I cannot inform you.”

“Do your suspicions alight on no one?” she inquired.

“They have fallen on several; but I have no certainty that I have been right in any instance,” he replied.  “That I have some spy near me, I am well aware; and if I detect him, he shall pay for his perfidy with his life.”