‘What is he to you?’ asked Greifenstein. Then, as though he guessed some fearful answer to his question he repeated it in a fiercer tone. ‘What is he to you? And what are you to her?’ he cried, facing his brother as he shook him by the arm.
‘You have cause to be angry,’ said Rieseneck. ‘And so have I.’ He fixed his eyes on Clara’s, and something like a smile flitted over his features.
‘Speak!’ commanded Greifenstein, to whom the suspense was becoming unbearable.
Clara saw that Rieseneck was about to utter the fatal words, and with a last remnant of energy she made a desperate attempt to cover his mouth with her hand. But she was too late.
‘This woman is my wife, not yours!’ he cried in ringing tones.
In an instant Greifenstein thrust his brother from him, so that he reeled back against the wall.
‘Liar!’ he almost yelled.
Clara fell upon the floor between the two men, a shapeless heap of finery. Rieseneck looked his brother in the face and answered the insult calmly. From the moment when he had recognised Clara, he had felt that he must see the whole horror of her fall with his own eyes in order to be avenged for his wrongs.
‘I told you my wife was dead,’ he said slowly. ‘I believed it. She is alive. She has lived to ruin you as she ruined me. Clara von Rieseneck—that is your name—stand upon your feet—lift up your infamous face, and own your lawful husband!’
Even then Clara might have saved herself. One vigorous protest, and Greifenstein would without doubt have slain his brother with his hands. But she had not the strength left to speak the strong lie. She dragged herself to her accuser’s feet and threw her arms about his knees.