“Then why are you here?” Royda hissed rather than spoke. “Why did I see you creeping like a thief across the bridge? Yes; like a thief, a thief, as you are!”
“I ran into the doorway for shelter from the storm,” Philippa replied, meeting the other’s violence with dignity, yet conscious of her false position.
“The storm?” Royda laughed mockingly. “Does that account for Rozsnyo being your nearest place of shelter? It is a long evening stroll for a young lady from Gorla’s farm.”
“Your suspicions,” Philippa said, repressing the indignation she felt at Royda’s manner, which was more insulting than her words, “are altogether wrong and most unjust. I lost my way in the forest before the storm began. I had no thought of coming here, much less a wish to see Count Zarka. I hate him.”
For a moment Royda looked at her without speaking. Such a look it was. Her eyes seemed to contract and coruscate with spite and rancour.
“You hate him!” she repeated slowly. “You hate him? Is that why he visits you every day? Why I find you here at his private door? Lucky the flash of lightning showed you to me before he saw you. Aubray will hardly expect you in this storm,” she continued mockingly. “He does not suspect what danger his dear Philippa would brave for his sake. But you are not at the end of your dangers yet, madame, let me tell you that.”
Philippa’s patience was exhausted, besides which she feared that any moment might bring Zarka upon the scene. She comprehended the jealousy of this angry girl, and cared little for her fury, but the other danger made her sick with fear and impatience.
“I have listened to you long enough,” she said haughtily. “If you do not accept my explanation, I cannot help it. I can stay no longer.”
As she moved to the door Royda sprang forward and reached it first. Then turned to Philippa, her dark face livid with hate and passion.
“You shall go,” she said in a low voice. “I will show you the way.”