"Ulceby!" she cried. "You here! Do you know there are soldiers about?"
"That is not my name," I answered. "Don't you know me, Bess?"
She rose from the stone, stepped closely up to me, and looked wonderingly into my face, with one hand fluttering about her breast. Then she sank back upon the tombstone, still keeping her eyes fixed on me, and said--
"Oh yes; I know your voice; I know your eyes. But where have you been? And who lies there?"--pointing to a new-made grave. "Your servant swore it was you. Your father swore so. Speak again. Let me touch you."
She rose, trembling all over, and reached out her hand. I took hold of it, and drew her down to the stone, seating myself beside her.
"Who has done that hellish work on your face? No; don't tell me, not yet."
She hid her face in her hands, shuddering.
"That has been done to give me the semblance of the man you named just now. And this too," I said, baring my chest, showing a crown and anchor, and the letters J.U.
"A soldier, who escaped from Lincoln, after striking one of the officers, and being condemned to be sent to the plantations. He came to us for hiding. He had the ague badly, and was taken to safer and better quarters, so I was told. That was just before I was sent to Horncastle fair, and on to Corby, and Spalding, and Stamford, because my father must stay to attend to Ulceby. And he seemed to be so much concerned about the deserter, that I thought no evil could be brewing against you just then, and so I was far away when mischief was doing. But I don't understand. Where were you?"
I told how I was captured, imprisoned, mutilated, and how I had escaped.
"This Ulceby must have died on your father's, hands," continued I, "and he conceived the design of taking me, putting my clothes on the dead man, corroding his face, and sinking the body in Belgrave pond."
By the girl's face, when I said that Ulceby must have died on her father's hands, I saw she thought of a darker probability. When I had ended my narrative, she remained silent awhile. When she spoke, it was to say that the mystery of my disfigurement was beyond her; why Boswell should have spared my life, when it was so easy to take it, she could not understand.
"He must have been confident of handing you over to the soldiers himself. Perhaps he meant to put a finishing touch to his work. I have heard him say horrible things, boasting of what can be done by a pin-prick."