The fragrant calm of the summer night reigned unbroken outside, a calm broken only by the musical rustle of the leaves. The moon shone bright as day; its beams fell on the sleeping flowers, and silvered the waving trees; they fell, too, on the beautiful face, with its look of restless scorn.
During that moment so strangely silent she thought of Earle—Earle, whom she was to marry to-morrow—Earle, whom she would marry, let the morrow bring what it might. No matter if her wedding-dress were torn into shreds—no matter if Lord Vivianne stood with a drawn sword in his hand to bar her progress to the altar—no matter if the whole world cried out, with its clanging, brazen voice, that she was lost, she would marry him!
She turned to her enemy, with a flush on her face, a scornful light in her eyes.
"You are but a coward after all," she said, "a paltry, miserable coward! You can do me no real harm, and you cannot take me from Earle."
"You did not always think me a coward, my Lady Dora. There was a time when you delighted to sun yourself in my eyes; you have not always held aloof from me as you do now. I have held you in my arms; I have kissed your lips; I have won you as no one else will ever win you. I like to look at you and remember it; I like to dwell on my recollections of those old days. Ah! your face flushes. Let me kiss you now."
He hastened toward her, trampling in his hot haste on the torn shreds of the wedding-dress.
"Do not touch me!" she cried. "Do not come near me!"
"I have kissed you before, and I will kiss you again," he said.
"I will kill you if you dare to touch me!"
She snatched up the first thing that came to her hand; it was the long, shining, sharp knife that had been used to prune the overhanging branches.