She watched fascinated. As he drew near, without a word she slowly raised her hands, and rent from her bosom its already desecrated veil. Then at last she spoke—or whispered:—
'I'm ready. Here's where you kissed and sighed. Bloody thy bed.'
He took her to his remorseless grasp. She had often thrilled to know her helplessness therein—wondered what it would be to feel it closed in hate. Now she had her knowledge—and instantly, in an ecstasy of terror, succumbed to it.
'No, no!' she gasped. 'Carlo, don't kill me!'
Voiceless still, he raised his hand. She gave a fearful scream.
'I never meant it. I'm innocent. Not without a word. Carlo! Carlo!—I loved him!'
Writhing in her agony, she tore herself free a moment, and sank at his feet, rending, as she fell, the curtain from its rings. His back was to the wall. In a mirror opposite he caught the sudden vision of his intent, and, looking down upon it, dim and spiritual, the sweet face of the Saint.
The dagger dropped from his hand.
The silence of a minute seemed to draw into an age.
Suddenly he was groping and stumbling like a drunken man. Words came to him in a babble:—