The letter was blotted with tears, and as he read it for whom it was written, other tears fell on it. Before two hours had passed, he was standing before her, with outstretched hands, the ring of passion in his voice, the fire of passion in his face.
"Leone," he said, "do you mean this—must we part?"
They forgot in that moment all the restraints by which they had surrounded themselves; once more they were Lance and Leone, as in the old days.
"Must we part?" he repeated, and her face paled as she raised it to his.
"I cannot bear the pain, Lance," she said, wearily. "It would be better for us never to meet than for me to suffer as I did last evening."
He drew nearer to her.
"Did you suffer so much, Leone?" he asked, gently.
"Yes, more almost than I can bear. It is not many years since I believed that I was your wife, and now I have to see another woman in my place. I—I saw you kiss her—I had to go away and leave you together. No, I cannot bear it, Lance!"
The beautiful head drooped wearily, the beautiful voice trembled and died away in a wail that was pitiful to hear; all her beauty, her genius, her talent—what did it avail her?
Lord Chandos had suffered much, but his pain had never been so keen as now at this moment, when this beautiful queenly woman wailed out her sorrow to him.