“You devil!” she cut in—“you dog! Didst thou not thyself, a minute ago, slander her behind her back?”
“I accused her openly,” cried Ned—“as I accuse her now!”
A stifled scream of agony answered him. He looked into a corner of the room, whence, from shadow, the sound had come. The dreamer—momentarily half stupefied by her fall—had risen, while they raged, and stood shrunk into an angle of the wall.
Théroigne leapt upon her—seized her by a wrist.
“Look!” she screeched, “upon him that thou wouldst give thy life to see, not being seen; to prevail with whom thou wouldst sacrifice thy honour and thy fame with heaven. Hear him now—how he regards thy devotion. Tell him—tell me, rather—he lies. Tell me thou art not a murderess; and I will crush the slander back upon him till it tears like a splintered rib into his heart!”
She stood quivering—glaring—worrying the arm she held.
“Speak!” she panted brokenly, “and leave the rest to me.”
A moment’s silence succeeded the terrible outcry.
“It is true what he says,” then whispered Nicette. “I murdered Baptiste.”
Théroigne dropped the wrist she clutched, and swung back heavily against the wall.