He knew her what she was, this lady. In Seville, or in Venice, the spot was on her. Sailing the pathways of the moon it was not celestial light that illumined her beauty. Her sin was there: but in dreaming to save, he was soft to her sin—drowned it in deep mournfulness.
Silence, and the rustle of her dress, awoke him from his musing. She swam wave-like to the sofa. She was at his feet.
“I have been light and careless to-night, Richard. Of course I meant it. I must be happy with my best friend going to leave me.”
Those witch underlids were working brightly.
“You will not forget me? and I shall try...try...”
Her lips twitched. She thought him such a very handsome fellow.
“If I change—if I can change... Oh! if you could know what a net I’m in, Richard!”
Now at those words, as he looked down on her haggard loveliness, not divine sorrow but a devouring jealousy sprang like fire in his breast, and set him rocking with horrid pain. He bent closer to her pale beseeching face. Her eyes still drew him down.
“Bella! No! no! promise me! swear it!”
“Lost, Richard! lost for ever! give me up!”