“I pray God that I may be worthy of your love,” said Veronica, gently and earnestly.

He drew her towards him by her little hand, and himself came softly nearer to her, till his other hand was on her shoulder, drawing her still.  She yielded, not knowing what she should do.  Quite close she was, and he held her, unresisting, and kissed her.  She had known, but she had not realized.  The scarlet blood leapt up in maiden shame, and she started back a little.  But she thought that he had the right to do it.

“Good night,” she said, with downcast eyes, for she felt that she could not stay to look at him.

“Good night, love,” he whispered.

He let her go, and she slipped from him, leaving him still standing in his place.  The door closed behind her, and he was alone, very quiet and pale, thinking of what he had done, and not rejoicing, for he knew the depth of its meaning.

He was glad it was over, for if it had been to do again, he could not have done it.  His lips were parched, his throat was dry, his hands were burning; he felt as though his head were shaking on his shoulders, palsied by a blow.  But such as the deed was, it had been well done, to the end.  The devil, if he cared for his own, would be pleased.  He had even kissed her.  He knew what Judas had been, now, and what he had felt.

He did not know how long he stood there.  It might have been a quarter of an hour or more; but though he watched the clock’s face, his eyes saw no movement of the hands upon the dial.  It seemed to him that the room was dark.

Then the door opened again, and he started and looked round, fearing lest Veronica might have come back—­or her ghost, for he felt as though he had killed her with his hands.  But it was Matilde Macomer.  She glanced round the room and saw that Veronica was gone.

“Well?” she asked, coming swiftly forward to where Bosio was standing, pale as death under her rouge.

He faced her stupidly, with heavy eyes, like a man drunk.

“It is all over” he said slowly.

She started forward, not understanding him.

“Over?  Broken off?” she cried, in horror.

“Oh no!” he answered with a choking laugh, bad to hear.  “It is done.  It is agreed.  She accepts me.”

Matilde drew breath, and pressed her hand to her left side for one moment—­she, who was so strong.

“You almost killed me!” she said, so low that Bosio hardly caught the words.

Slowly she straightened herself, and the colour came back to her face, blending with the tinge of the paint.  He did not move, and she came and stood near him, leaning her elbows upon the mantelpiece and turning to him.

“You have saved me,” she said.  “I thank you.”

Bad natures can be simple, if they are great enough, and Matilde spoke simply, as she looked at him.  She had been almost terrible to look at a few moments earlier, with the rouge visible on her ghastly cheeks.  No one could have detected it now, and she was still splendid to see, as she stood beside him, just bending her face upon her clasped hands while her deep eyes melted in his.