He burst out into a discordant laugh, on which, like a wounded snake, she dragged herself painfully along the floor until she reached his feet.
"Keep off," he whispered, in a hoarse voice; "keep off, you shameless creature!"
"But hear me."
"Hear you!--hear you!" said Sir Rupert, in a tone of concentrated scorn. "I heard you twenty years ago. The law heard you; the world heard you. What can you say to me now that I did not hear then?"
"Pity me. Oh, Rupert, pity me!"
"Pity you! You that had no pity on me! You that ruined my life--that blasted my name--that made my home desolate! Pity you! I am not an angel! I am a man."
The woman twisted her hands together, and burst out crying into floods of hot bitter tears that burned and seared her cheeks--those cheeks that burned with shame at the righteous scorn of the man who had trusted her and whom she had wronged.
"What are you doing here?" said Pethram, harshly. "Rise and answer me. Don't lie grovelling there with your crocodile tears."
"Have you no mercy?"
"None for such as you."