"My God! my God!" cried Mrs. Verschoyle, stamping up and down the room; "Oh that my fingers were round her throat? She has taken my lovers from me, and now she'd take my life. Bah!" with a sudden change, "they can't prove anything. You can save me."
"Yes, but will I?"
Mrs. Verschoyle stole round the table, and laid her arm caressingly round his neck.
"Yes, you will, my Matteo. Think of the love I have for you. You will disappoint this bloodhound, when he thinks his game sure, and you will marry me. We will go back to our beautiful Malta, and there be happy."
This woman wooed with all the caressing fierceness of the South, her harsh voice sank to a liquid murmur, and her wonderful eyes lost their savage gleam, and became melting and tender.
"You will marry me," she whispered, softly.
Vassalla sneered to himself, then rising suddenly, removed her arms from around his neck.
"Impossible," he said, coldly; "I am engaged to Carmela."
Mrs. Verschoyle sprang back, her eyes blazing with anger, and dashed the fragments of her glove in his face.
"Ingrate! Traitor! Scoundrel! You shall suffer for this."