And with a last look about the room, as if some sensation of farewell were stirring in her breast, she laid her hand on Bertram’s arm, and together they hurried away into the night.

BOOK V.

WOMAN’S LOVE.

XLI.

THE WORK OF AN HOUR.

“Base is the slave that pays.”—Henry V.

“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”—Congreve.