Chapter Thirty Five.
The Vantage-Ground of Truth.
Demetrius burst abruptly into the room.
His wild appearance startled us. His face was pale and haggard; his eyes bloodshot, his collar torn, and his coat rent at the shoulder.
He stopped suddenly, stepping back a few paces when he saw Vera was not alone.
“Why, good Heavens! What’s the matter?” I exclaimed, in utter astonishment; for he and I had been the closest friends.
“Matter! Diable! You should know!” he cried, his foreign accent being more pronounced in his excitement.
“No. What is it?” asked Vera, who had risen and was standing close to him. “Are you mad?”
“Yes, imbecile—if you like,” he shouted hoarsely. Pointing to Boris, he added, his face distorted by a look of intense hatred, “That traitor is the cause! He has set the police upon me. They have followed me and are hunting me down. But they shall not arrest me—Sacré—at least not yet!”