“He? Who?” said he.
She took no notice of the question, but went on in great excitement—
“What are these horrors that you speak of? Have you seen them? What are they, I say? Do they tear aristocrats limb from limb? This truth that he used to preach—my God! there is no hope for the world until they massacre them each one!”
“That who used to preach?” said Ned, quite shocked and bewildered.
“Liars! liars! liars!” cried the girl, striking hand into hand.
Then suddenly she had flung herself round against the tree, and, in a storm of tears, had buried her head in her arms.
“Go!” she cried, in a muffled voice. “Why do you come back with the other memories? Why do you notice or speak to me? Can you not see that I am accursed—an outcast?”
He would have essayed to comfort, to reassure her. Her wayward passion took his breath away. Even while he hesitated, she turned upon him once more:—
“Are you not also of the haute noblesse? What truth or honour or courage can be in you, then? Yes, courage, monsieur. You have fled because you were afraid they would kill you, as he fled before his pursuing conscience. You will not tell me the truth, because you are shamed in its revelation. My God! what cowards are you all! But only say to me that he is dead—stabbed to the heart—and I will fall down and kiss your feet!”
To Ned, standing there dumfoundered, came an inkling of a tragedy.