“He had been hiding in the bushes of the thicket upon her right hand, and had watched her for a space while she counted her beads and muttered prayers for the Count’s return. But now he sprang out, and clutched her by the arm, swinging her round roughly, so that he brought her face to face with him. He wore the same clothes in which he had gone with her to the hut of Orio; but the breeches were black with dirt, the high boots were cracked and rotting, the green jacket was torn and wanted buttons. Though his face was no longer pinched with want, and he had shaved off the stubble of beard, nevertheless he was but a shadow of the Ugo who had loved Christine at Zlarin. She saw that his eyes were bright as the eyes of one who wakes to fever; his left arm was bandaged and hung limp by his side; his right hand gripped her flesh so that she could feel his fingers touching the bone. Yet no word of anger passed his lips; a smile that was half a sneer lighted up his pale features; an exclamation of pleasure escaped him when he saw that all the blood had run from the girl’s face, and that fear and agony of mind had made her dumb.
“‘Cospetto, little Christine,’ he cried, shaking her until he went near to wrenching the bone of her arm from its socket, ‘have you no word of welcome for me?’
“She answered him only with a low moan; she was praying in her heart that God would strike her dead at his feet. But to him her grief was so much for merriment and satisfaction.
“‘Maledetto, carissima,’ he went on, still clutching her arm, ‘is this the way you meet me? Ho, ho! I thought it would be so now that we had diamonds on our neck. Devil! to run to another man’s arms in the hour of my misfortune! But it is my turn now, little Christine. I have the priest’s writing in my pocket, and the writing of witnesses. You are my wife, carina, before God and men. See how I claim you!’
“He dragged her to him roughly, tearing the fine linen of her chemise. He had meant to make his embrace as loathsome to her as possible, for his hate of her waxed strong. There is no middle way for an Italian who loves, excellency—either a fierce consuming passion, burning the stronger in gratification, or a hatred which may never turn to love again. Ugo Klun had loved Christine well when he took her from Zlarin; but the thought that she had been in another man’s arms—for such was his belief—drove him to this madness. He swore that he would compel her to the very depths of suffering. She should work for him, slave for him, bear his embraces—the taste of riches she had known should be a life-long bitterness in her mouth. If she loved Count Paul of Jézero, so much the better. That would bring a speedier vengeance.
“‘See how I claim you,’ he repeated, pressing her against him in spite of her cry of pain and loathing—‘oh, we will have merry days, my Christine. I hurt you, little one? Nay, but I will hurt you the more yet! My face burns you? Diamine, that your fine clothes should have made your skin so soft! Oh, do not draw back, carina—though I have but one arm, see how easily it holds you—and your lips are very sweet. Benissimo, that they should be mine to kiss!’
“The man had the strength of a beast, and for some moments he held her in a grip like iron. When the pressure of his arm was relaxed she almost fell upon the road; but he still had her wrist, and he stood over her, mocking her until at last she found words to answer him.
“‘Ugo—oh, God be merciful—what shall I say to you? They told me you were dead. See how I suffer. Oh, blessed Mother of Christ, help me! Ugo, what harm have I done you?—oh, you tear my flesh! Ugo, let me speak—let me run back to the house that I may tell them—dear God, that I might die—my tears blind me.’
“‘Your tears blind you?’ cried he, savagely. ‘You thought that I was dead! That is well, since I live to tell you otherwise and to see you weep. Oh, surely this is a great day, little one, when you soil your fine clothes in the dust, and kneel to me for mercy. We will have many like it before the year is run! You shall cry every day to the Blessed Virgin, but she will not hear you, carissima. You shall work the flesh off those pretty arms, my wife, and yet shall have more to do. Run back to the house! I would cut your throat first!’
“He accompanied his words with a blow upon her pretty mouth, and as she moaned before him and shook with her sobs he continued: