“Ellen Halloway!—­who calls Ellen Halloway?” said the wretched woman, who had again resumed her slovenly meal on the rude couch, apparently without consciousness of the scene enacting at her side.  “I am not Ellen Halloway:  they said so; but it is not true.  My husband was Reginald Morton:  but he went for a soldier, and was killed; and I never saw him more.”

“Reginald Morton!  What mean you, woman?—­What know you of Reginald Morton?” demanded Wacousta, with frightful energy, as, leaning over the shrinking form of Clara, he violently grasped and shook the shoulder of the unhappy maniac.

“Stop; do not hurt me, and I will tell you all, sir,” she almost screamed.  “Oh, sir, Reginald Morton was my husband once; but he was kinder than you are.  He did not look so fiercely at me; nor did he pinch me so.”

“What of him?—­who was he?” furiously repeated Wacousta, as he again impatiently shook the arm of the wretched Ellen.  “Where did you know him?—­Whence came he?”

“Nay, you must not be jealous of poor Reginald:”  and, as she uttered these words in a softening and conciliating tone, her eye was turned upon those of the warrior with a mingled expression of fear and cunning.  “But he was very good and very handsome, and generous; and we lived near each other, and we loved each other at first sight.  But his family were very proud, and they quarrelled with him because he married me; and then we became very poor, and Reginald went for a soldier, and—­; but I forget the rest, it is so long ago.”  She pressed her hand to her brow, and sank her head upon her chest.

“Ellen, woman, again I ask you where he came from? this Reginald Morton that you have named.  To what county did he belong?”

“Oh, we were both Cornish,” she answered, with a vivacity singularly in contrast with her recent low and monotonous tone; “but, as I said before, he was of a great family, and I only a poor clergyman’s daughter.”

“Cornish!—­Cornish, did you say?” fiercely repeated the dark Wacousta, while an expression of loathing and disgust seemed for a moment to convulse his features; “then is it as I had feared.  One word more.  Was the family seat called Morton Castle?”

“It was,” unhesitatingly returned the poor woman, yet with the air of one wondering to hear a name repeated, long forgotten even by herself.  “It was a beautiful castle too, on a lovely ridge of hills; and it commanded such a nice view of the sea, close to the little port of -----; and the parsonage stood in such a sweet valley, close under the castle; and we were all so happy.”  She paused, again put her hand to her brow, and pressed it with force, as if endeavouring to pursue the chain of connection in her memory, but evidently without success.

“And your father’s name was Clayton?” said the warrior, enquiringly; “Henry Clayton, if I recollect aright?”

“Ha! who names my father?” shrieked the wretched woman.  “Yes, sir, it was Clayton—­Henry Clayton—­the kindest, the noblest of human beings.  But the affliction of his child, and the persecutions of the Morton family, broke his heart.  He is dead, sir, and Reginald is dead too; and I am a poor lone widow in the world, and have no one to love me.”  Here the tears coursed each other rapidly down her faded cheek, although her eyes were staring and motionless.