“But you must go,” she cried. “You must go; I am betrothed.”
“Betrothed?”
The colour died from his face. She hung her head, and her breast rose and fell quickly.
“Ah!” she cried, “do not hate me, George. Do not think that I have been false to you. It is not my fault; I swear it is not. A fate, cruel and terrible has overwhelmed me.”
For a moment he stood rigid as one transfixed.
“What is the man’s name?” he inquired at last, in a hard, strained tone.
She stood silent for several moments, then slowly, without raising her head, answered,—
“Zertho.”
“His surname, I mean,” he demanded.
“Prince Zertho d’Auzac,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice.