"It is my fate,—for better—or worse—no matter what befall. As for you—life lies before you. Love another, happier woman, one that is free to give—and to receive. As for me—"
She paused and covered her face with her hands.
"What will you do?" he cried in his overmastering anguish.
A faint, far-off voice made reply.
"I shall do that which I must!"
He staggered away from her. She should not see the scalding tears that coursed down his cheeks. But, as he turned, he again saw the dark and glowering face, the brow gloomy as a thunder-cloud, of the Count de Laval. But again it was not he. It was the black-garbed, lithe stranger, the companion of the hunchback, who was regarding Hellayne with evil, leering eyes.
He wanted to cry out, warn her, entreat her to fly.—
But it was too late.
Like a bird that watches spellbound the approach of the snake, Hellayne stood pale and trembling—her cheeks white as death—her eyes riveted on the evil shape that seemed the fiend. But he, Tristan, also was encompassed by the same spell. He could not move—he could not cry out. With a bound, swift and noiseless as the panther's, he saw the sinewy stranger hurl himself upon Hellayne, picking her up like a feather and disappear in the gloom of the forest.
With a cry of horror, bathed from head to foot in perspiration, Tristan started from his slumber.