"Oh, my
temper, my temper!" he cried, as Iris shrank from him. "She hates me
now, and no wonder." He staggered away from her, and burst into a
convulsive fit of crying, dreadful to hear. Compassion, divine
compassion, mastered the earthlier emotion of terror in the great heart
of the woman who loved him. She followed him, and laid her hand
caressingly on his shoulder. "I don't hate you, my dear," she said. "I
am sorry for Arthur--and, oh, so sorry for You!" He caught her in his
arms. His gratitude, his repentance, his silent farewell were all
expressed in a last kiss. It was a moment, never to be forgotten to the
end of their lives. Before she could speak, before she could think, he
had left her.
She called him back, through the open door. He never returned; he never
even replied. She ran to the window, and threw it up--and was just in
time to see him signal to the carriage and leap into it. Her horror of
the fatal purpose that was but too plainly rooted in him--her
conviction that he was on the track of the assassin, self devoted to
exact the terrible penalty of blood for blood--emboldened her to insist
on being heard. "Come back," she cried. "I must, I will, speak with
you.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174