a little healing sympathy for the almost mortal wound that you have made.  But I now see that you have stood by and watched like a grand inquisitor.  Tell your friend that you have transformed the thoughtless girl into a suffering woman.  I cannot go to Brazil.  I cannot face dangers that might bring rest.  I must keep my place in society—­keep it too under a hundred observant and curious eyes.  You have seen it all of late in this house; I was too wretched to care.  It was a part of my punishment, and I accepted it.  I would not be false again even in trying to conceal a secret which it is like death to a woman to reveal.  I only craved one word of kindness from you.  Had I received it, I would have gone away in silence and suffered in silence.  But your course and what I have heard have made me reckless and despairing.  You do not leave me even the poor consolation of self-sacrifice.  You are my stony-hearted fate.  I wish you had left me to drown.  Tell your friend that I am more wretched than he ever can be, because I am a woman.  Will he be satisfied?”

“He ought to be,” was the low, husky reply.

“Are you proud of your triumph?”

“No, I am heartily ashamed of it; but I have kept a pledge that will probably cost me far more than it has you.”

“A pledge?”

“Yes, my pledge to make you suffer as far as possible as he suffered.”

She put her hand to her side as if she had received a wound, and after a moment said wearily and coldly: 

“Well, tell him that you succeeded, and be content;” and she turned to leave him.

“Stay,” he cried impetuously.  “It is now your turn.  Take your revenge.”

“My revenge?” she repeated in unfeigned astonishment.

“Yes, your revenge.  I have loved you from the moment I hoped you had a woman’s heart, yes, and before—­when I feared I might not be able to save your life.  I know it now, though the very thought of it enraged me then.  I have watched and waited more to be sure that you had a woman’s heart than for aught else, though a false sense of honor kept me true to my pledge.  After I met you on the beach I determined at once to break my odious bond and place myself at your mercy.  You may refuse me in view of my course—­you probably will; but every one in that house there shall know that you refused me, and your triumph shall be more complete than mine.”

She looked into his face with an expression of amazement and doubt; but instead of coldness, there was now a devotion and pleading that she had never seen before.

She was too confused and astounded, however, to comprehend his words immediately, nor could the impression of his hostility pass away readily.

“You are mocking me,” she faltered, scarcely knowing what she said.