“No, along here; let us go through this door.”
“This door” was one at quite the end, leading into a kind of boudoir; but ere they reached it, and as they were nearly hidden by the rich leaves and flowers, Clotilde turned to her companion with a low, piteous sigh—gazing wildly in his eyes. “Oh, Marcus, why did I marry that man?”
Volume Three—Chapter Four.
Glen’s Defender.
Marcus Glen could hardly recall exactly what happened upon that unlucky night; but Clotilde’s words rang still in his ears, and even as they seemed to throb in his brain, there was a burst of light that seemed to cut the semi-darkness where they stood—the boudoir doors being thrown open—and with the light came a burst of conversation and music from the inner rooms.
Those sounds seemed to be mingled with the furious oath uttered by Elbraham, who was upon the step with Lord Henry Moorpark, and Marie close behind.
It was like some situation in a comedy drama, and before he could recover from his surprise he felt a sharp blow across his face, and a tiny jet of blood spurting from the puncture made by the point of a brilliant where it had entered his temple.
“How dare you! Elbraham! Husband! Protect me from this man.”