Then the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together—­great purple masses of clouds piled themselves in the sky, a lurid light overspread the heavens, the dense oppressive silence was broken by a distant peal of thunder, great rain-drops fell—­fierce, heavy drops.  The trees seemed to stretch out their leaves to drink in the moisture, the parched flowers welcomed the downpour; and still the Duchess of Hazlewood stood out on the terrace, so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she never heeded the rain.

Madaline hastened out to her with a shawl.

“Dear duchess,” she cried, “it is raining; and you are so absorbed in thought that you do not notice it.”

She laughed a strange, weird laugh, and raised her beautiful face with its expression of gloom.

“I did not notice it, Madaline,” she said; “but there is no need for anxiety about me,” she added, proudly.

They re-entered the house together.  Madaline believed that the duchess was thinking of and grieving over the departure of the duke.  Lady Peters thought the same.  They both did their best to comfort her—­to amuse her and distract her thoughts.  But the absent expression did not die from her dark eyes.  When they had talked to her some little time she took up the “Lady of Lyons.”

“How much you admire that play,” said Madaline; “I see you reading it so often.”

“I have a fancy for it,” returned the duchess; “it suits my taste.  And I admire the language very much.”

“Yet it is a cruel story,” observed Madaline; “the noblest character in it is Pauline.”

“She was very proud; and pride, I suppose, must suffer,” said the duchess, carelessly.

“She was not too proud, after all, to love a noble man, when she once recognized him, duchess.”

“She learned to love the prince—­she would never have loved the gardener,” remarked Philippa; “it was a terrible vengeance.”

“I do not like stories of vengeance,” said Madaline.  “After all, though, I love the Claude of the story, and find much true nobility in him—­much to admire.  When reading the play I am tempted all the time to ask myself, How could he do it?  It was an unmanly act.”

There was a strange light in the dark eyes, a quiver on the scarlet lips, as Philippa said: 

“Do you think so?  Suppose some one had offended you as Pauline offended Claude—­laughing at the love offered, scorned, mocked, despised you—­and that such vengeance as his lay in your power; would you not take it?”

The sweet face flushed.

“No, I would rather die,” Madaline replied, quickly.

“I would take it, and glory in it,” said the duchess, firmly

“If I were wounded, insulted, and slighted as Claude was, I would take the cruelest revenge that I could.”

Madeline took one of the jeweled hands in her own and kissed it.

“I should never be afraid of you,” she said; “you can never hurt any one.  Your vengeance would end in the bestowal of a favor.”