rose in him; the ferocity of bitter suspicion worked in him; against all witness he had disbelieved every accusation brought to stain her, but he could not disbelieve the meaning of that silence, of that humiliation, of that conscience-stricken abasement.
The patience, so long strained, broke at last.
"They say this brute was once dear to you? Is it true, since you cover his crime so fondly?"
She did not reply; her head was bent so that he could not look upon her countenance, but he could see the heaving of her breast with its rapid, laden breathing.
His hands grasped her with unconscious violence; he knew neither what he did or said; he knew only that she could not meet his eyes, that she could not answer his challenge.
"Is it true?—that you once loved him?"
She bowed her head; a faint, chill, deadly smile crossed her lips one moment, she smiled as men, lying broken on the wheel, have laughed.
A cry rang from him dawn the stillness of the vault; he staggered where he stood, and loosed her from his hold, and stretched his arms out mechanically, as though he had grown blind and sought support. The merciless light of certainty seemed to have stricken his sight as lightning strikes it;
