She gave him another smile, but shook her head.
“Was it Lotzen—tell me, was it?”
Again the smile, and the motion of refusal.
“Very well, if you won’t, I’ll find out for myself.”
“You cannot—the man won’t tell—and no one saw it.”
He laughed with quiet menace.
“I’ll find him,” he said; “I’ll find him.”
Quick fear seized her. He would succeed, she knew; and then, what would he do! Something, doubtless, to try to force the Duke to fight; and which would result only in his own disgrace and in being driven from the country. He must not suffer for her misfortune—and Dornlitz, without her dear Irishman, would be impossible; and she was not yet quite ready to go with him. She had told him something—as much as she might with proper reserve—of Lotzen’s behavior that other morning; and it had been difficult enough to restrain him then. Now, with the dishevelled hair, and torn gown, and blood on her face, only his own word would hold him.
“Promise me, Ralph, promise me,” she implored; “there is no reason for punishment—see,” holding out her hand, “here is the only place he touched me—only on the wrist—I swear it, Ralph—”
He took the hand, and looked at the soft, blue-veined flesh, chafed and abraded with the pinch of iron fingers; and again the rage of hate swept him, and he put the hand down sharply and turned away his head, unwilling that she should see his face while passion marked it.