While thus seated together, their arms encircling each other’s waist, their hands locked together and touching, a dark form was visible on an adjacent rock. It was that of a hunter, who paused, and whose eyes of flame were instantly fixed on the lovers. This was Gerome Chanet, who stood like a statue—still, silent, and immovable. Fire was at his heart, and the demon of jealousy had him in his clutches.
“Theresa!” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “and with him—with the Englishman. Heaven be merciful to me, for I feel as one about to sink into some dark and fathomless abyss.”
Neither Lord Ethalwood nor his companion was aware that their actions were being watched by the terrible and vengeful young mountaineer.
When by chance either of them turned their heads Gerome crept behind a mountain peak and stood motionless.
He was the very personification of mute despair.
No wonder. Theresa Trieste had cast him off. The reason was now but too palpable. Gerome felt that he had lost the dearly-coveted prize he had sought with such pertinacity for so many years.
The looks, the attitude, the low whispers which the loving pair were exchanging told the mountaineer of the utter hopelessness of his case.
Theresa would not condescend to even look at him after this.
He felt so supremely miserable at this time that the thought crossed his mind of committing suicide there and then by precipitating himself from the promontory upon which he stood.
But upon second thoughts he made up his mind to make one last desperate effort. He would send a messenger to the earl and ask him to give him an interview. As a gentleman, he could not refuse this request.