“With this,” and as he spoke he touched the handle of his knife. “Don’t shudder; he deserved it, and I shall be safe in a few days. These affairs are quickly forgotten. Besides, there is another reason why we should not live as we have lately been living.”
Xantippe opened her eyes as she asked, “What reason?”
Gregorio relaxed his hold, for the memory of his loss shook him with sobs. Cat-like, Xantippe had waited her opportunity and sprang away from his grasp. The movement brought the man to his senses. He rushed at her with an oath, waving the knife in his hand. Xantippe prepared to defend herself. They stood, desperate, before each other, neither daring to begin the struggle. Through the awful silence came the sound of sobs and a plaintive voice crying:
“Gregorio, come back, leave her; I love you.”
“Is Madam Marx outside?” hissed Xantippe.
“Yes.”
“Then go to her. I tell you I hate you.” She pointed to the half-filled box—“I was going to leave here to-night. I will never return to you.”
“You were going with the Englishman?”
“He is a man.”
Gregorio paused a moment, then in a suppressed voice, half choking at the words, said: