"I give it to King James--not so you: for the furtherance of a great and holy cause, not for the prosecution of wild and unprofitable schemes." Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
"And the will ?" he said, with forced calmness.

"Do you still refuse to make one!" "I _have_ made one," replied Lady Trafford.
"How ?" cried her brother, starting.
"Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into compliance with your wishes.

Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience.

My will is executed, and placed in safe custody." "In whose favour is it made ?" he inquired, sternly.
"In favour of my son." "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
"I _had_ one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still." "If I thought so--" cried the knight fiercely; "but this is idle," he added, suddenly checking himself.

"Aliva, your child perished with its father." "And by whom were they both destroyed ?" demanded his sister, raising herself by a painful effort, and regarding him with a searching glance.
"By the avenger of his family's dishonour--by your brother," he replied, coolly.
"Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!" "A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!" "It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch.
"I will swear it upon the cross!" "His name, then ?" demanded the knight.