“At first he said nothing.  He took me by the arm, and led me out of the boat-house, and looked about him on all sides, as if he was afraid of our being seen or heard.  Then he clasped his hand fast round my arm, and whispered to me, ’What did Anne Catherick say to you yesterday?  I insist on hearing every word, from first to last.’”

“Did you tell him?”

“I was alone with him, Marian—­his cruel hand was bruising my arm—­ what could I do?”

“Is the mark on your arm still?  Let me see it.”

“Why do you want to see it?”

“I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end, and our resistance must begin to-day.  That mark is a weapon to strike him with.  Let me see it now—­I may have to swear to it at some future time.”

“Oh, Marian, don’t look so—­don’t talk so!  It doesn’t hurt me now!”

“Let me see it!”

She showed me the marks.  I was past grieving over them, past crying over them, past shuddering over them.  They say we are either better than men, or worse.  If the temptation that has fallen in some women’s way, and made them worse, had fallen in mine at that moment Thank God! my face betrayed nothing that his wife could read.  The gentle, innocent, affectionate creature thought I was frightened for her and sorry for her, and thought no more.

“Don’t think too seriously of it, Marian,” she said simply, as she pulled her sleeve down again.  “It doesn’t hurt me now.”

“I will try to think quietly of it, my love, for your sake.—­Well! well!  And you told him all that Anne Catherick had said to you—­ all that you told me?”

“Yes, all.  He insisted on it—­I was alone with him—­I could conceal nothing.”

“Did he say anything when you had done?”

“He looked at me, and laughed to himself in a mocking, bitter way.  ‘I mean to have the rest out of you,’ he said, ’do you hear?—­the rest.’  I declared to him solemnly that I had told him everything I knew.  ‘Not you,’ he answered, ’you know more than you choose to tell.  Won’t you tell it?  You shall!  I’ll wring it out of you at home if I can’t wring it out of you here.’  He led me away by a strange path through the plantation—­a path where there was no hope of our meeting you—­and he spoke no more till we came within sight of the house.  Then he stopped again, and said, ’Will you take a second chance, if I give it to you?  Will you think better of it, and tell me the rest?’ I could only repeat the same words I had spoken before.  He cursed my obstinacy, and went on, and took me with him to the house.  ‘You can’t deceive me,’ he said, ’you know more than you choose to tell.  I’ll have your secret out of you, and I’ll have it out of that sister of yours as well.  There shall be no more plotting and whispering between you.  Neither you nor she shall see each other again till you have confessed the truth.  I’ll have you watched morning, noon, and night, till you confess the truth.’