Then Beatrice turned to her father, and spoke in another and a pleading
voice, stretching out her arms towards him.
"Oh, father," she said, "at least tell me that _you_ believe me. Though
you may think that I might love to all extremes, surely, having known
me so many years, you cannot think that I would lie even for my love's
sake."
The old man looked wildly round, and shook his head.
"In his room and in his arms," he said. "I saw it, it seems. You, too,
who have never been known to walk in your sleep from a child; and you
will not say that you do not love him--the scoundrel. It is wicked of
Elizabeth--jealousy bitter as the grave. It is wicked of her to tell the
tale; but as it is told, how can I say that I do not believe it?"
Then Beatrice, her cup being full, once more dropped her head, and
turned to go.
"Stop," said Owen Davies in a hoarse voice, and speaking for the first
time. "Hear what _I_ have to say."
She lifted her eyes. "With you, Mr. Davies, I have nothing to do; I am
not answerable to you. Go and help your accomplice," and she pointed to
Elizabeth, "to cry this scandal over the whole world.
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