"I fear I have but too just cause to hate him."
"As all do! As all! He lives," she went on, "but to slay and injure others as he slew and injured him," and she half turned her head and cast up her eyes at the miserable relic above her. Then she continued: "Listen. He was no poacher, no thief. But I—I—his wife—was unfortunate enough to fall under the other's notice—he sought me—you understand?—and he"—with again the upward glance—"resisted his desires. You see the end!"
Looking into her eyes, observing her well-defined features, noticing that, except for her awful pallor, she might well be a handsome woman, especially when bright and happy instead of, as now, grief-stained, St. Georges could understand. Then, while also he meditated as to whether this De Roquemaure was a fiend that had taken human shape, the woman went on:
"Daily almost some fall under his bane. But a week ago a stranger here—one carrying a helpless babe—was set upon——"
"What!" and now he felt as though the universe was spinning round.
—"was set upon," she continued, "struck to death—he is dying now, or dead——"
"And the babe?" St. Georges interposed.
"Carried off by those who did his bidding."
"O God! Lost again!" and the moan he uttered startled the woman out of her own grief.
"Who are you?" she asked, her great eyes piercing him.