His eyes flashed.
“This,” he answered. “The close and pernicious enthralment of a woman I never met till the night before last; a woman whose face haunts me; a woman who drags me to her side with the force of a magnet, there to grovel like a brain-sick fool and plead with her for a love which I already know is poison to my soul! Helen, Helen! You do not understand—you will never understand! Here, in the very air I breathe, I fancy I can trace the perfume she shakes from her garments as she moves; something indescribably fascinating yet terrible attracts me to her; it is an evil attraction, I know, but I cannot resist it. There is something wicked in every man’s nature; I am conscious enough that there is something detestably wicked in mine, and I have not sufficient goodness to overbalance it. And this woman,—this silent, gliding, glittering-eyed creature that has suddenly taken possession of my fancy—she overcomes me in spite of myself; she makes havoc of all the good intentions of my life. I admit it—I confess it!”
“You are speaking of the Princess Ziska?” asked Helen, tremblingly.
“Of whom else should I speak?” he responded, dreamily. “There is no one like her; probably there never was anyone like her, except, perhaps, Ziska-Charmazel!”
As the name passed his lips, he sprang hastily up and stood amazed, as though some sudden voice had called him. Helen Murray looked at him in alarm.
“Oh, what is it?” she exclaimed.
He forced a laugh.
“Nothing—nothing—but a madness! I suppose it is all a part of my strange malady. Your brother is stricken with the same fever. Surely you know that?”
“Indeed I do know it,” Helen answered, “to my sorrow!”
He regarded her intently. Her face in its pure outline and quiet sadness of expression touched him more than he cared to own even to himself.