For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict. The militia offered little in the way of relief. Anything. A paralyzing horror was upon her. "Where's Thames?" he hastily inquired. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Anna lied to you, I lied to you. "Close the court, Mr. " "So I find, Rowland," replied the other, in accents of deep disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. .
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