At these words Margaret reeled back till the wall of the cabin stayed her, and there she rested.
“Spare me your reproaches,” went on d’Aguilar hurriedly. “I will tell you all the truth. First, be not anxious as to your father; no accident has happened to him; he is sound and well. Forgive me if you have suffered pain and doubt; but there was no other way. That tale was only one of love’s snares and tricks——” He paused, overcome, fascinated by Margaret’s face, which of a sudden had grown awful—that of a goddess of vengeance, of a Medusa, which seemed to chill his blood to ice.
“A snare! A trick!” she muttered hoarsely, while her eyes flamed on him like burning stars. “Thus then I pay you for your tricks.” And in an instant he became aware that she had snatched a dagger from her bosom and was springing on him.
He could not move; those fearful eyes held him fast. In another moment that steel would have pierced his heart. But Betty had seen also, and, thrusting her strong arms about Margaret, held her back, crying:
“Listen, you do not understand. It is I he wants—not you; I whom he loves, and who love him, and am about to marry him. You he will send back home.”
In another moment that steel would have pierced his heart
“Loose me,” said Margaret, in such a voice that Betty’s arms fell from her, and she stood there, the dagger still in her hand. “Now,” she said to d’Aguilar, “the truth, and be swift with it. What means this woman?”
“She knows best,” answered d’Aguilar uneasily. “It has pleased her to wrap herself in this web of conceits.”