You and your race made me an outcast. Why ?
because I befriended the king. I am an out-
cast still, and I am still the king's hegeman. I
shall be that in my coffin. Let that pass. One
thing more. You and yours made me an outcast,
and wrecked my life. You may say you did not
wish it, or it was your right to do it. I do not wish
to blame you — only to show you your handiwork
in me, a pauper. Mary Hastings, my hands are
not white, but red. I own that to you, as I have
owned it to myself a hundred times. I have wrecked
your life, and I did not mean it, and there is no
help for it. You were a wife, and "

Mrs. Lawrence, who during the sick man's mon-
ologue had looked him steadily in the face, as
though a word or motion should not escape her,
broke in impetuously, " I am a wife, William Ware-
ham."

" Well, then, I wish to speak of your husband."

" Go on, then. What of him ? " (imperiously).
" This. They had made me, as you can remem-
ber, an outlaw in the woods. I was no murderer. I
was only what they called a Tory, and yet they
hunted me as though I were a dog. Your husband
came out on that errand. He had been my fKend.
We met face to face in the ravine. He was armed.
I was not, just then. He had forgotten our friend-
ship : we met as enemies. He would have laid



350 THE POOB^HOUSE.
