While giving utterance to this tirade, Mr. Bainrothe was slowly unwinding a string from around the roll of papers he had laid on the table, and which he now proceeded to spread somewhat ostentatiously before me, still mute and impassive to all his advances as I continued to be.

“There are several,” he said.  “Your signature to each, will be required, which, now that you are in your right mind again, and of age, will be binding, as you know.  My witnesses shall be called in when the time comes.  Dr. Englehart and Mrs. Clayton will suffice as proofs of these solemnities—­these and others likely to occur.”

“Solemnities!  Levities, mockeries rather!” I could not help rejoining.

He felt the sarcasm.  His florid cheek paled with anger, his yellow-speckled eyes glowed with lurid fire, he compressed his lips bitterly as he said: 

“Marriage is usually considered a solemnity, Miss Monfort; and, let me assure you, it is only as a married woman I can conscientiously release you from confinement.  You have shown yourself too erratic to be intrusted in future with your own liberties.”

“Possibly,” I rejoined.  “Yet I mean to have the selection, let me assure you, in return, of the controller of my liberties—­nay, have already selected him, for aught you know!”

My cool audacity seemed for a moment to paralyze even his own.  He paused and surveyed me, as if in doubt of his own senses.

“Impayable!” I heard him murmur, softly, and, turning to the book-shelves, he left me for a time to master the contents of the three documents over which I was bending.

I read them in order as they were numbered, and became more and more indignant as their meaning opened upon my brain, and culminated at last in a sharp, sudden exclamation of utter disdain.

I started from my chair and approached him, paper in hand.  I think for a few moments the idea of personal danger possessed him, and the vision of a concealed dirk or pistol swam before his eyes, which he shielded with his hand, while he placed a chair between us; and, truth to say, there was murder in my heart, and in my eyes as well, I suppose, even if the mistrust went no further.

I could have obliterated him from the face of the earth at that moment as remorselessly as if he had been a viper in my path striking to sting me.  Yet I advanced toward him with no demonstration or intentions of this kind, having the habits of lady-like breeding and usual innocence of weapons, and ignorance of the use thereof as well, to restrain me.

I forget.  Close to my heart lay one of the sharp, shining chisels I had taken from the glazier in the bath-room.

“What is it you object to, Miriam?” he asked, in faltering tones, as his hand fell and his glimmering eyes encountered mine.

From that day I have believed the legend which tells that, when the Roman, helpless in his dungeon, thundered forth, “Slave! darest thou kill Caius Marius?” the armed minion of murder turned and fled, dropping the knife he held, in his panic, at the feet of the man he came to slay.  Almost such effect was for a time observable in Basil Bainrothe.