“A lie! An impious lie!” he repeated. “I am a witness. It is no marriage.”
“Bah! Mad fellow!” cried Zarka. “What trick is this. He is mad; pay no heed to his raving!”
The Prince made a spring forward but stopped half way, and stood glaring at him, unable to speak through the working of his passion.
“You call me mad!” he gasped. “Yes; you have tried to make me so. But I have escaped from your diabolical trap.”
“I think,” said Galabin coolly to Zarka, “this is Prince Roel of Rapsburg, whom you, as a creature of the Russian, have kept here secretly a prisoner—”
“That you might accuse Fräulein Harlberg of his death,” Von Tressen cried fiercely, “and, by working upon her fears, force her into a marriage with you. It was the act of a contemptible coward and a villain! Come, Philippa. We have had enough of this.”
He put out his arm half caressingly, half protectingly to lead her away. But as they made a move towards the door, Zarka came quickly forward and planted himself to intercept them, with an ugly, determined set to his face.
“You do not think I shall let you go like this,” he said. “She is my wife, and you touch her at your peril.”
“I can prove she is not his wife,” Prince Roel cried excitedly.
“I intend,” Von Tressen said quietly, “to take Fräulein Harlberg home to her father. If your assertion be true, you will have ample opportunity for claiming her.”