To be brought up short in an amorous quest by such a sight as that was a shock alike to Soane’s better nature and his worse dignity.  The former moved him to stand silent and abashed, the latter to ask with an indignant curse why he had been brought to that place.  And the latter lower instinct prevailed.  But when he raised his head to put the question with the necessary spirt of temper, he found that the girl had left his side and passed to the other hand of the dead; where, the hood thrown back from her face, she stood looking at him with such a gloomy fire in her eyes as it needed but a word, a touch, a glance to kindle into a blaze.

At the moment, however, he thought less of this than of the beauty of the face which he saw for the first time.  It was a southern face, finely moulded, dark and passionate, full-lipped, yet wide of brow, with a generous breadth between the eyes.  Seldom had he seen a woman more beautiful; and he stood silent, the words he had been about to speak dying stillborn on his lips.

Yet she seemed to understand them; she answered them.  ’Why have I brought you here?’ she cried, her voice trembling; and she pointed to the bed.  ’Because he is—­he was my father.  And he lies there.  And because the man who killed him goes free.  And I would—­I would kill him!  Do you hear me?  I would kill him!’

Sir George tried to free his mind from the influence of her passion and her eyes, from the nightmare of the room and the body, and to see things in a sane light.  ‘But—­my good girl,’ he said, slowly and not unkindly, ‘I know nothing about it.  Nothing.  I am a stranger here.’

‘For that reason I brought you here,’ she retorted.

‘But—­I cannot interfere,’ he answered, shaking his head.  ’There is the law.  You must apply to it.  The law will punish the man if he has done wrong.’

‘But the law will not punish him!’ she cried with scorn.  ’The law?  The law is your law, the law of the rich.  And he’—­she pointed to the bed—­’was poor and a servant.  And the man who killed him was his master.  So he goes free—­of the law!’

‘But if he killed him?’ Sir George muttered lamely.

‘He did!’ she cried between her teeth.  ‘And I would have you kill him!’

He shook his head.  ‘My good girl,’ he said kindly, ’you are distraught.  You are not yourself.  Or you would know a gentleman does not do these things.’

‘A gentleman!’ she retorted, her smouldering rage flaming up at last.  ’No; but I will tell you what he does.  He kills a man to save his purse!  Or his honour!  Or for a mis-word at cards!  Or the lie given in drink!  He will run a man through in a dark room, with no one to see fair play!  But for drawing his sword to help a woman, or avenge a wrong, a gentleman—­a gentleman does not do these things.  It is true!  And may—­’