“Onwards; I must go on!” was still his thought, as he unscrewed the hinge on which the lid of the trunk moved.  His hands trembled, his breath came fast, but he did his task quickly.  This was the right way to work, for the lock was a peculiar one, and could not have been opened without spoiling it.  He raised the lid, and the first thing his hand came upon in the chest was the necklace with the empty medallion—­it was as though some kind Genius were aiding him.  The medallion hung but slightly to the elegantly-wrought chain; to detach it and conceal it about his person was the work of a minute.

But now the most resolute.  “On, on. . . .” was of no further avail.  This was theft:  he had robbed her whom, if she only had chosen it, he was ready to load with everything wherewith fate had so superabundantly blessed him.  No, this—­this. . . .

A singular idea suddenly flashed through his brain; a thought which brought a smile to his lips even at this moment of frightful tension.  He acted upon it forth with:  he drew out from within his under-garment a gem that hung round his neck by a gold chain.  This jewel—­a masterpiece by one of the famous Greek engravers of heathen antiquity—­had been given him in Constantinople in exchange for a team of four horses to which his greatest friend there had taken a fancy.  It was in fact of greater price than half a dozen fine horses.  Half beside himself, and as if intoxicated, Orion followed the wild impulse to which he had yielded; indeed, he was glad to have so precious a jewel at hand to hang in the place of the worthless gold frame-work.  It was done with a pinch; but screwing up the hinge again was a longer task, for his hands trembled violently—­and as the moment drew near in which he meant to let Paula feel his power, the more quickly his heart beat, and the more difficult he found it to control his mind to calm deliberation.

After he had unbolted the door he stood like a thief spying the long corridor of the strangers’ wing, and this increased his excitement to a frenzy of rage with the world, and fate, and most of all with her who had compelled him to stoop to such base conduct.  But now the charioteer had the reins and goad in his hand.  Onwards now, onwards!

He flew down stairs, three steps at a time, as he had been wont when a boy.  In the anteroom he met Eudoxia, Mary’s Greek governess, who had just brought her refractory pupil into the house, and he tossed her the nosegay he still held in his hands; then, without heeding the languishing glances the middle-aged damsel sent after him with her thanks, he hastened back to the gate-keeper’s lodge where he hurriedly disburdened himself of the locksmith’s tools.