She took it up and read it quickly through, the color ebbing and coming as she sat.
His heart was beating so fast he could hardly breathe, his whole soul sick with an awful fear. The paper fell on her lap, and she remained still, as if not knowing what to say.
"Elsa," he cried, "how could those words have been written unless the writer of them knew—what you know?"
The girl tossed the paper from her, flinging herself back in her chair defiantly.
"That mean, hateful woman," she cried, with passion. "She deserves—what does she not deserve?—when she solemnly vowed to me not to tell a soul——"
She stopped short, the words died away. The blaze in Percivale's eyes seemed to wither and strike her dumb.
"Elsa!" Rising, he stood before her, laying his hands on her shoulders. "Do you mean to tell me that you have been speaking of what should be sacred in your eyes—no, no! Consider what you are saying."
"Nonsense, Leon!" Angry tears sprang to her eyes. "Let go of me—you hurt! You speak as if I were a criminal."
His face, as his hold relaxed and stepped back, was pitiful to behold.
"To a woman," he said. "To what woman?"