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She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father.
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