Salome stared at the abbess for a few moments in amazed silence, and then exclaimed: 

“Dear madam, good mother, are you still under that deep delusion?”

“Delusion!” echoed the lady.

“Yes, the deepest delusion.  Dear lady, do you not know, can you not comprehend now that the man who visited us this morning was no other than John Scott, the counterpart whom even I really did mistake for the Duke of Hereward, as you say; and that the bold, bad beauty who accompanied him was his wife, Rose Cameron?”

“Nay, daughter, he was Count Waldemar de Volaski!” persisted the abbess.

“What an hallucination!  Dear lady, do you not see—­But what is the use of talking?  I cannot convince you of your mistake:  but circumstances may; for, of course, sooner or later the unhappy man will be arrested and brought to trial for his share in the robbery and murder at Castle Lone.”

“No, you cannot convince me of mistake, because I have not made any; but I will convince you of yours,” said the lady, rising and striking a match and lighting a lamp; for they had hitherto sat in darkness.

Salome smiled incredulously.

The abbess went to a little drawer of the stand upon which her crucifix and missal stood, and drew from it a small box, which she opened and exhibited to Salome, saying: 

“This, daughter, is the only memento of the world and the world’s people that I have retained.  I should not have kept even this, but that it is the likeness of my once betrothed, bestowed on me on the occasion of our betrothal, cherished once in loyal love, cherished now in prayerful memory of one whom I supposed had expiated his sins by death, long, long ago.  I have kept it, but I have not looked at it for twenty years or more.”

Salome took the miniature, and examined it carefully with interest and curiosity.

It was very well painted in water-colors on ivory.  It represented a young man of from twenty to twenty-five years of age, with a Roman profile, fair complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair and mustache; and so far as these features and this complexion went, the miniature certainly did bear an external and superficial resemblance to John Scott and to the young Duke of Hereward; but in character and expression the faces were so totally different that Salome could never have mistaken the miniature to be a likeness of the duke or his brother, or either of these men to be the original of the picture.

After gazing intently at the miniature for a few minutes, she turned to the abbess and said: 

“You tell me that you have not looked at this for twenty years?”

“I have not,” said the lady.

“And you tell me that the man who visited the asylum this morning is the original of this picture?”

“I do.”

“Then, dear mother, your memory is at fault and your imagination deceives and misleads you.  Both the supposed original and the miniature are thin-faced, with Roman features, fair complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair—­points of resemblance which are common to many men who are not at all alike in any other respect.  Now look at this miniature again, and you will see that, except in the points I have named, it is in no way like the man you mistook for its original.”