art now able to talk of her thus? Where is thine own heart, Mr.
Scudamore?'

'In thy bosom, lovely Dorothy.'

'Thou mistakest. But mayhap thou dost imagine I picked it up that
night thou didst lay it at mistress Amanda's feet in my lord's
workshop in the keep?'

Dorothy's hatred of humbug--which was not the less in existence then
that they had not the ugly word to express the uglier thing--enabled
her to fix her eyes on him as she spoke, and keep them fixed when
she had ended. He turned pale--visibly pale through the shadowy
night, nor attempted to conceal his confusion. It is strange how
self-conviction will wait upon foreign judgment, as if often only
the general conscience were powerful enough to wake the individual
one.

'Or perhaps,' she continued, 'it was torn from thee by the waters
that swept thee from the bridge, as thou didst venture with her yet
again upon the forbidden ground.'

He hung his head, and stood before her like a chidden child.

'Think'st thou,' she went on, 'that my lord would easily pardon such
things?'

'Thou knewest it, and didst not betray me! Oh Dorothy!' murmured
Scudamore. 'Thou art a very angel of light, Dorothy.'