"Then why have you played him false?"
"Oh, I do not know, I—I cannot tell!"
She cast the delicate arm from her as though the contact were contamination.
"I hope to heaven you are insane, as it is whispered," she gasped, weak from excess of anger and feebleness; "madness would be your only salvation in my eyes. But I have my doubts, I have my doubts. I shall raise heaven and earth to find my son, I shall go in search of him myself if messengers fail, and when he is found I shall send him to you, and I only pray that the sight of him may strike you dead at his feet if he comes too late!"
The grinding of the returning carriage-wheels upon the gravel of the avenue interrupted her further utterance, and in silence she hobbled back to the footman, who obsequiously replaced her upon her cushions.
Left alone amidst the whispering leaves, the sunshine and the birds, Romaine slowly struggled back to semi-consciousness. She pressed her hands upon her throbbing temples, while dry sobs rent her from head to foot.
"O what have I done?" she sobbed, "and what am I doing?"
Like one stricken with sudden blindness she felt her way from tree to tree, leaning against their trunks every now and then for support. In this pitiful way she reached the terrace-steps, stumbled and fell prostrate in the garish light, like a stricken flower discarded by the reapers.
CHAPTER XI.
"The Devil tempts thee here
In likeness of a new untrimmed bride."