"It is strange, madame, how we stand face to face once more—alone together. Is it not? It was your hand dealt that stab!"
She could not answer him, could only regard him fixedly, her eyes glaring as they had glared four years ago, and as they had glared not four minutes since. Only now it was with the wild stare of fear added to hate and fury, and not with hate and fury alone; also she kept still her right hand in the fold of her dress.
"When last we met, madame," St. Georges continued, his voice low and solemn as before, "you interfered between me and my vengeance on one who had deeply wronged me. You had the power to do so, bore about you a concealed weapon, and—used it! Have you one now?" and he pointed with his finger to where her hand was.
Still she maintained silence—trembling all over and affrighted; even the arm hanging down by her side with the hand in the pocket was trembling too.
"Well," St. Georges said, "it matters not! I shall not give you a second opportunity—shall not turn my back on you."
Then she spoke, roused by the contempt of those last words.
"I would not have struck at you," she said, "even though I loved De Roquemaure—am his affianced wife when he returns from England——"
"When—he—returns—from England!" St. Georges repeated, astonished.
"Yes. His affianced wife." In her tremor she thought his disbelief of this was the cause of his astonishment, never dreaming of how he had last left her lover. "Not even for that love. But you had abused, insulted me, called me wanton, suggested it was I who stole your child. And you were very masterful, ordered us to follow you into the inn, carried all before you, treated him like a dog, would have slain him——"
"I have since learned I wronged you, at least; that it was another—woman—who stole my child. But enough. We have met again, madame, and—and—I must——"