The clergyman fell on his knees.
"Don't harm me," he faltered, "I will make reparation."
"Up! up! don't kneel to me," shrieked Dermoyne, and he dragged the miserable culprit to his feet. "There's no manner of kneeling or praying between heaven and hell, that can help you, if that poor girl dies. I spared her father for her sake, (and to make my silence perpetual, he made a will, in which he names me as his sole heir, in case of his daughter's death); I spared her father for her sake, and can you think that I will spare you,—you who have brought her to a shame and death like this?"
He pointed to the bed, and once more the poor girl, writhing in pain, uttered, in a low, pleading voice, "Herman, Herman, do not, oh! do not desert me!"
Dermoyne, at a rapid glance, surveyed the culprit cringing against the wall,—the florid Madam, who stood apart, her face manifesting undeniable chagrin,—and then his gaze rested upon Corkins, who, kneeling in the corner, seemed to have been suddenly stricken dumb. And as he took that rapid glance, his eyes flashed, his face grew paler, his bosom heaved, and a world of thought rushed through his brain; and, in a moment, he had decided upon his course.
He drew near to the Madam: she could not meet the look which he fixed upon her face.
"To-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, I will return to this house," he said, in a low voice; "I hold you responsible for the life of this poor girl. Nay, do not speak; not a word from your accursed lips. Remember!—he drew a step nearer,—to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, and—I hold you responsible for the life of Alice Burney."
The Madam quailed before his glance; for once, her florid face grew pale. "But how will you obtain entrance into my house?" she thought; and a faint smile crossed her countenance.