“No, he’s—­he’s not there!” he murmured, “but—­”

With a harsh exclamation he dashed his fist against the mirrored face of the lady of the feathers.  The glass cracked and broke from top to bottom.  Cuckoo cried out.  Valentine’s hand had blood upon it.  He did not seem to know this, and swung round upon her with an almost savage fury.

“Don’t—­don’t, for God’s sake,” she cried, fearing an attack.

But he made no movement against her.  On the contrary, an expression of relief chased the anger from his lips and eyes.

“Ah!” he said, “that’s a lying mirror!  It lied to you and to me.  I smashed it.  Well, I’ll give you another that is more truthful, and more ornamental too.”

“What was it you saw?” she murmured.

“A silly vision, power where there is only weakness; a will, a soul, where there could not be one!”

“Eh? was it that you struck at?”

“Why do you ask?” he said with sudden suspicion.

“You struck where my face was,” she said doggedly.  “You did, you did!”

“Nonsense!”

“It ain’t!  Why did you do it, then?”

A gleam of hope had shot into her eyes, lit by his weird attack upon her mirrored image.  After all, despite his sneers at her faded body, his gibes at her faded and decaying soul, he struck at her as a man strikes at the thing he fears.  In that faded soul a wild hope and courage leaped up, banishing all the sick despair which had preceded it.  The lady of the feathers faced Valentine with a deathless resolution of glance and of attitude.

“You’ve been telling lies,” she said “you’ve been telling me damned lies!”

“What do you mean?”

“You said as I was—­was done with.”

A forced smile came like a hissing snake on Valentine’s lips.

“So you are!”

“I ain’t!  I ain’t!  What’s more, you know it!”

“You have broken yourself to pieces as I have broken that mirror!”

He spoke with an effort after scathing contempt, but she detected a quiver of agitation in his voice.

“If I have, I’ll break you yet!” she cried.

“Me?  What are you talking about?”

“You know well enough.”

“But do you know—­do you know that I—­I am Marr?”

He almost whispered the last words!  A chill of awe fell over the lady of the feathers.  She did not understand what he meant, and yet she felt as if he spoke the truth, as if this inexplicable mystery were yet indeed no fiction, no phantasy, but stern fact, and as if, strangely, she had at the back of her mind divined it, known it when she first knew Valentine, yet only realized it now that he himself told her.  She did not speak.  She only looked at him, turning white slowly as she looked.