“You know better than that, Dorothy.  I would have killed him had we met.  Do you understand?  I would have killed the man you expect to marry.  Have you thought of that?” She sank back in the seat and looked at him dumbly, horror in her face.  “That is one reason why I laughed at his ridiculous challenge.  How could I hope to claim the love of the woman whose affianced husband I had slain?  I can win you with him alive, but I would have built an insurmountable barrier between us had he died by my hand.  Could you have gone to the altar with him if he had killed me?”

“O, Phil,” she whispered.

“Another reason why I refused to accept his challenge was that I could not fight a cur.”

“Phil Quentin!” she cried, indignantly,

“I came here to tell you the truth about the man you have promised to marry.  You shall hear me to the end, too.  He is as black a coward, as mean a scoundrel as ever came into the world.”

Despite her protests, despite her angry denials, he told her the story of Ugo’s plotting, from the hour when he received the mysterious warning to the moment when he entered her home that evening.  As he proceeded hotly to paint the prince in colors ugly and revolting she grew calmer, colder.  At the end she met his flaming gaze steadily.

“Do you expect me to believe this?” she asked.

“I mean that you shall,” he said, imperatively.  “It is the truth.’

“If you have finished this vile story you may go.  I cannot forgive myself for listening to you.  How contemptible you are,” she said, arising and facing him with blazing eyes.  He came to his feet and met the look of scorn with one which sent conviction to her soul.

“I have told you the truth, Dorothy,” he said simply.  The light in her eyes changed perceptibly.  “You know I am not a liar, and you know I am not a coward.  Every drop of blood in my veins sings out its love for you.  Rather than see you marry this man I would kill him, as you advise, even though it cost me my happiness.  You have heard me out, and you know in your heart that I have told the truth.”

“I cannot, I will not believe it!  He is the noblest of men, and he loves me.  You do not know how he loves me.  I will not believe you,” she murmured, and he knew his story had found a home.  She sank to the seat again and put her hand to her throat, as if choking.  Her eyes were upon the strong face above her, and her heart raced back to the hour not far gone when it whispered to itself that she loved the sweetheart of other days.

“Dorothy, do you love me?” he whispered, dropping to her side, taking her hand in his.  “Have you not loved me all these days and nights?”

“You must not ask—­you must not ask,” she whispered.

“But I do ask.  You love me?”

“No!” she cried, recovering herself with a mighty effort.  “Listen!  I did love you—­yes, I loved you—­until to-day.  You filled me with your old self, you conquered and I was grieving myself to madness over it all.  But, I do not love you now!  You must go!  I do not believe what you have said of him and I despise you!  Go!”