“Go on,” said Lady Featherstone, moistening her dry lips.  Wogan told her how from the little sitting-room on the ground-floor he had seen the King and Whittington cross the lawn; he described his interview with the King, and how he had come quietly down the stairs.

“I went into the garden,” he went on, “and touched Whittington on the elbow.  I told him just what I have explained to you.  I said, ’You are a coward, a liar, a slanderer of women,’ and I beat him on the mouth.”

Lady Featherstone uttered a cry and drew herself into an extraordinary crouching attitude, with her eyes blazing steadily at him.  He thought she meant to spring at him; he looked at that hand upon her heart to see whether it held a weapon hidden in the fold of her bosom.

“Go on,” she said; “and he?”

“He answered me in the strangest quiet way imaginable.  ’You insulted Lady Featherstone at Ohlau, Mr. Wogan,’ said he, ’one evening when she hid behind your curtain.  It was a very delicate piece of drollery, no doubt.  But I shall be glad to show you another, view of it.’  It is strange how that had rankled in his thoughts.  I liked him for it,—­upon my soul, I did,—­though it was the only thing I liked in him.”

“Go on,” said Lady Featherstone.  Mr. Wogan’s likes or dislikes were of no more interest to her than the failure of her effort to hinder the marriage.

“We went to the bottom of the garden where there is a little square of lawn hedged in with myrtle-trees.  The night was very dark, so we stripped to our shirts.  From the waist upwards we were visible to each other as a vague glimmer of white, and thus we fought, foot to foot, among the myrtle-trees.  We could not see so much as our swords unless they clashed more than usually hard, and a spark struck from them.  We fought by guesswork and feel, and in the end luck served me.  I drove my sword through his chest until the hilt rang upon his breast-bone.”

Then just a movement from Lady Featherstone as though she drew up her feet beneath her.

“He lived for perhaps five minutes.  He was in great distress lest harm should come to you; and since there was no one but his enemy to whom he could speak, why, he spoke to his enemy.  I promised him, madam, that with his death the story should be closed, if you left Italy within the week.”

“And he?” she interrupted,—­“he died there.  Well?”

“You know the laurel hedge by the sun-dial?  There is an out-house where the gardener keeps his tools.  I found a spade there, and beneath that laurel hedge I buried him.”

Lady Featherstone rose to her feet.  She spoke no word; she uttered no cry; her face was white and terrible.  She stood rigid like one paralysed; then she swayed round and fell in a swoon upon the floor.  And as she fell, something bright slipped from her hand and dropped at Wogan’s feet.  He picked it up.  It was a stiletto.  He stood looking down at the childish figure with a queer compassionate smile upon his face.  “She could love,” said he; “yes, she could love.”