"Frank? bah! What could he do? What could any one do?"
She turned, and scanned his face keenly.
"Evan, you suspect, or you know something."
"I have a thought," he replied. "I hardly dare call it a suspicion. If I could know it to be the truth," he hissed, between set, white teeth, "I should know what to do, then."
"Don't look like that, Evan; you look wicked."
"I feel wicked," he cried, fiercely. "You can never guess how wicked. When I think of that brute, that beast, that viper; of the power he must hold over her, I am mad, crazed. But he will come back, and then—then I will murder him, and set her free."
With his gleaming eyes, his clenched hands, his white, uplifted face, he looked like a beautiful evil demon. Constance shuddered as she gazed, and then her hand closed firmly upon his arm, as she said:
"Evan, listen: Do you think it would lighten Sybil's burden to hear you rave thus? Do you want to make her lot still harder to bear? Sybil loves you. Would it make her heart lighter to have you embroil yourself for her sake? You know your faults. If you let this hideous idea take place in your mind now, it will break out some day when the demon possesses you. If Sybil Lamotte returns, and hears you utter such threats, she will have an added torture to bear; she will have two curses instead of one. You can not help Sybil by committing an act that would cut you off from her forever. You have caused her heart-aches enough already. See, now, if you can not lighten her burden in some different, better way. But all this is superfluous, perhaps. I wonder if Sybil will come back, at all?"
Lower and lower sank his head, as he listened, and then something that she had said seemed to chain and hold his thoughts.
Slowly the evil light faded from his eyes, and into his face crept a strange, fixed look. Forgetful of time, or of his companion's presence, his thoughts followed this new course, his hands clenching and unclenching themselves, his teeth burying themselves from time to time in his thin under lip. So long he sat thus, that Constance herself, from watching and wondering at his strange mood, wandered off into a sad reverie, the subject of which she could hardly have told, it was such a vague mixture of Sybil's sorrows and her own unrest.