“At least you ought not to reproach me.  You might guess my motive—­my only one—­without forcing me to confess it.  Have I not gratified your pride enough already?”

“You know that is not the question,” Guy answered, gravely.  “Yet you are half right.  I could not reproach you for any fair, honest move.  In much, I own myself more guilty than you.  But this is very different.  Miss Bellasys, you must have distrusted greatly your own powers of fascination before you stooped to such cruel treachery.”

“I did not know what I was doing,” she whispered; “I did not know she was dying.  Ah!  Guy, have pity!”

“But you knew it might kill her to find her letter—­such a letter—­unanswered.  You knew what she must have suffered before she wrote it.  You did all this in cold blood, and now you say to me, ’Have pity!’ If an accountable being—­not a woman and her miserable instrument—­had wronged me so, I would have risked my soul to have revenge; and, because that is impossible, you think that I feel less bitterly?  You might have known me better by this time.”

Instead of being softened by her appeal, his heart, features, and tone were hardening more and more.

The sting of defeat, imminent and unavoidable, that, ere this, has driven strong and wise men headlong into the thickest of the battle to hunt for death there, proved too much for a temper never well regulated.

“You have decided, then?” she cried, passionately, her eyes flashing and her lip quivering.  “After all I have risked and borne for you, I am to be sacrificed to a shadow—­a memory—­the memory of that cold, pale statue of propriety?” She checked herself suddenly, only just in time.

Guy had sprung to his feet, excitement bringing back for the moment all his lost strength.  If Ralph Mohun had seen him, he would not have feared that the wrathful devil was cast out.  It was raging within him then, untamed and dangerous as ever.

“Do you dare to insult her now that she is dead—­and to me, not a month after I have lost her?  It is not safe:  take care, take care!”

The tempest of his passion made him forget, for the first time in his life, the weakness of her who had roused it.

Flora was only a woman after all, though haughty and bold of spirit as any that had breathed.  Her own outbreak of anger vanished before that terrible burst of wrath, just as the camp-fire, when the prairie is blazing, is swallowed up in the great roaring torrent of flame.  She bowed her head on her hands, trembling all over in pure physical fear.  Guy felt ashamed when he saw the effect of his violence, and spoke more gently than he had done yet.

“Forgive me.  I was very wrong; but I have not learned to control myself—­I never shall, I fear; but you ought not to say such words, even if I could bear them better.  Now it is time that we should part; you have staid here too long already.  You must not risk your reputation for me, who can not even be grateful for the venture.  We shall never meet again, if we can avoid it; it would be strange to do so as mere acquaintance, and in any other way—­no, don’t stop me—­it is impossible.  It will be long before I go much into society again, so I shall not cross your path.”