"No," said Michael, wincing as under a lash, "No, you did not. Fay, you never said that."
"You did not hear it, but I said it."
Michael staggered against the mantelpiece.
Wentworth had not moved. His face had become frightful, distorted.
"I am a wicked woman, Wentworth," said Fay. "I tried to make him in love with me. I tried to tempt him. I could make him love me, but not do wrong. And then I let him take the blame when he was trapped. I had trapped him there first. He did not want to come. I forced him to come. I let him spoil his life to save my wretched good name. He is right when he told you just now that I never loved him. The love was all on his side. He gave it all. I took it all, and I went on taking it. It was I who kept him in prison quite as much as the Marchesa. It was I who let him burn and freeze in his cell. A word from me would have got him out."
Wentworth laughed suddenly, a horrible, discordant laugh.
They had rotted down before his eyes to loathsome unrecognisable corpses—the man and the woman he had loved.
Fay looked wildly at him.
"But you are good," she said faintly. "You won't, Wentworth, you won't cast me off like—like I did Michael."
He did not look at her.