“Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. ‘You have every right to be angry with me. ’ ‘Because I was a servant in the vicomte’s house? Things have changed. Kneebone made his appearance. "Not my king's," returned Wood. The thought of beauty became an obsession. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction.
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