“You mean,” said her Grace, almost in a whisper, “you mean that he—­was murdered?”

“Nay,” he replied, “not murdered—­struck a frenzied blow and killed, and it might have been by one driven mad with anguish and unknowing what he did.”

Her Grace caught her breath.

“As ’twas with the poor man I told you of,” she broke forth as if in eagerness, “the one who died on Tyburn Tree?”

“Yes,” was his answer.

“Perhaps—­you are right,” she said, and passed her hand across her brow; “perhaps—­you—­are right.”

“But there was found no trace,” Sir Christopher cried out; “no trace.”

“Ah!” said my lord Duke, slowly, “that is the mystery.  A dead man’s body is not easy hid.”

The Duchess broke forth laughing—­almost wildly.  The whole group started at the sound.

“Nay, nay!” she cried.  “What dark things do we talk of!  Sir Christopher, Sir Christopher, ’twas you who set us on.  A dead man’s body is not easy hid!”

“’Tis enough to make a woman shudder,” cried Lady Betty, hysterically.

“Yes,” said her Grace.  “See, I am shuddering—­I, who am built of Wildairs iron and steel.”  And she held out her hands to them—­her white hands—­and indeed they were trembling like leaves.

The evil thing they had spoke of had surely sunk deep into her soul and troubled it, though she had so laughed and lightly changed the subject of their talk, for in the night she had an awful dream, and her lord, wakened from deep slumber—­as he had been once before—­started up to behold her standing in the middle of the chamber—­a tall white figure with its arms outflung as if in wild despair, while she cried out in frenzy to the darkness.

“I have killed thee—­I have killed thee,” she wailed, “though I meant it not—­even hell itself doth know.  Thou art a dead man—­and this is the worst of all!”

“’Tis a dream,” he cried aloud to her and clutched her in his warm, strong arms. “’Tis a dream—­a dream!  Awake!—­Awake!—­Awake!”

And she awoke and fell upon her knees, sobbing as those sob who are roused from such a horror.

“A dream!—­a dream!—­a dream!” she cried.  “And ’tis you awake me!  You—­Gerald—­Gerald!—­And I have been ten years—­ten years your wife!”

CHAPTER XXXII

In the Turret Chamber—­and in Camylott Wood

When the great soldier returned to Blenheim Castle, his Grace of Osmonde bore him company and having spent a few days in his society at that great house returned to town, from whence he came again to Camylott.