"That woman Caley, I am certain, is not to be trusted. She does
not love you, my lady."
"How do you know that?" asked Florimel, speaking steadily, but
writhing inwardly with the knowledge that the warning was too late.
"I have tried her spirit," answered Malcolm, "and know that it is
of the devil. She loves herself too much to be true."
After a little pause Florimel said,
"I know you mean well, Malcolm; but it is nothing to me whether
she loves me or not. We don't look for that nowadays from servants."
"It is because I love you, my lady," said Malcolm, "that I know Caley
does not. If she should get hold of anything your ladyship
would not wish talked about,--"
"That she cannot," said Florimel, but with an inward shudder. "She
may tell the whole world all she can discover."
She would have cantered on as the words left her lips, but something
in Malcolm's looks held her. She turned pale; she trembled: her
father was looking at her as only once had she seen him--in doubt
whether his child lied. The illusion was terrible. She shook in her
saddle. The next moment she was galloping along the grassy border
of the heath in wild flight from her worst enemy, whom yet she could
never by the wildest of flights escape; for when, coming a little
to herself as she approached a sand pit, she pulled up, there was
her enemy--neither before nor behind, neither above nor beneath
nor within her: it was the self which had just told a lie to the
servant of whom she had so lately boasted that he never told one
in his life.
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