“Exposure of my plans would cost me my life,” she answered, her face white and set, a shudder running through her slight frame.
“Your life?” he echoed, still mystified. “One would think you feared assassination!”
She made no answer, but, pale to her lips, she held her breath. The flunkey in blue re-entered the room, bearing a telegram upon a salver. His mistress took it and, tearing open the folded pale drab paper, read its contents.
“No reply,” she said; and the man, bowing, withdrew. “Nino,” she exclaimed in a voice of deep earnestness when the servant had gone, “you may think it extraordinary, but for your sake, because I love no other man but yourself, I have resolved to risk my life and free myself. This telegram makes it imperative that we should leave again for England to-night. You have shown trust in me; you do not believe all the idle tales gossips have littered. I love you, Nino. If I prove victor, I gain your affection, and happiness always with you. If I lose, then I die, unwillingly, but nevertheless in the confidence that to the end you trusted me.”
“No, no!” he cried fiercely. “You shall not die! You shall never be taken from me! I adore you, Gemma! God knows I love you, darling!”
“Then you will never doubt me—never!” she cried, clinging closely to him, and raising her beautiful face to his. “You will not doubt me even if, to gain my end, I feign love for another. To him, my kisses shall be Judas-kisses, my smiles mockery, my lips venom, my embrace the chilling embrace of death. Hear me?” she cried wildly. “I go to England with a purpose—a vendetta complete and terrible which I will accomplish by hatred—or, failing that, by love. Both will be equally fatal.”