sfaction,
I felt as though the bony fingers of death itself had been plunged into
my very marrow. I shivered with cold, my limbs would scarce bear me
upright, and my teeth chattered as though I were seized by strong ague.
But the fixity of my purpose strengthened me till all was done--till
the stage was set for the last scene of the tragedy. Or comedy? What
you will! I know that in the world nowadays you make a husband's
dishonor more of a whispered jest than anything else--you and your
heavy machinery of the law. But to me--I am so strangely
constituted--dishonor is a bitterer evil than death. If all those who
are deceived and betrayed felt thus, then justice would need to become
more just. It is fortunate--for the lawyers--that we are not all
honorable men!

When I returned from my dreary walk in the driving storm I found
Vincenzo still fast asleep. I was glad of this, for had he seen me in
the plight I was, he would have had good reason to be alarmed
concerning both my physical and mental condition. Perceiving myself in
the glass, I recoiled as from an image of horror. I saw a man with
haunted, hungry eyes gleaming out from under a mass of disordered white
hair, his pale, haggard face set and stern as the face of a merciless
inquisitor of old Spain, his dark cloak dripping with glittering
raindrops, his hands and nails stained as though he had dug them into
the black earth, his boots heavy with mire and clay, his whole aspect
that of one who had been engaged in some abhorrent deed, too repulsive
to be named. I stared at my own reflection thus and shuddered; then I
laughed softly with a sort of fierce enjoyment. Quickly I threw off all
my soiled habiliments, and locked them out of sight, and arraying
myself in dressing-gown and slippers, I glanced at the time. It was
half-past one--already the morning of my bridal. I had been absent
three hours and a half. I went into my salon and remained there
writing. A few minutes after two o'clock had struck the door opened
noiselessly, and Vincenzo, looking still very sleepy, appeared with an
expression of inquiring anxiety. He smiled drowsily, and seemed
relieved to see me sitting quietly in my accustomed place at the
writing-table. I surveyed him with an air of affected surprise.

"Ebbene, Vincenzo! What has become of you all this while?"

"Eccellenza," he stammered, "it was the Lacrima; I am not used to wine!
I have been asleep."

I laughed, pretended to stifle a yawn on