Her retort seemed to render the girl desperate.
"You know it is true!" she cried. "You knew that he was married—that I am his wife. He is Lord Blair Leyton; his uncle is the Earl of Ferrers. He is my husband, and you have stolen him from me——"
"You lie!" burst from Margaret's white lips.
The passion that had been smoldering within her bosom leapt like an all-devouring flame to her lips, and she stood over the pale-faced, crouching girl like a goddess, her tall, graceful figure drawn to its full height, her eyes blazing, her hand outstretched as if it held the lightnings of Jove.
No wonder the girl shrank and cowered.
She did more than cower; she hesitated. For in that moment she quailed with fear, and half melted with pity, and shrank with loathing from her hellish task.
It was only for a moment. She had gone too far to go back now. To draw back would lead to exposure and ruin.
"Oh, hush, hush!" she whined. "You are too cruel! You know I speak the truth. We were married on the twelfth of March at St. Jude's—you do not believe me—see there, then; there is the certificate!" and she drew a paper from her breast and held it out, keeping firm grip of it, however.
Margaret stared at her without moving for a moment; then she bent down. For awhile she could see nothing, the paper and the characters on it danced before her eyes. Then her vision cleared, and she saw, still obscurely, the printed and written lines.