She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. . Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. She was finally dead, going to Hell. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl.
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