dly towards you, and are
sorry you should cherish such feelings.'

'He is very good,' said Caterina, bitterly. 'What feelings did he say I
cherished?'

This bitter tone increased Miss Assher's irritation. There was still a
lurking suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself,
that Captain Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct and
feelings towards Caterina. It was this suspicion, more even than the
anger of the moment, which urged her to say something that would test the
truth of his statement. That she would be humiliating Caterina at the
same time, was only an additional temptation.

'These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot even
understand how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never
given her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the
case.'

'He told you that, did he?' said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips
turning white as she rose from her chair.

'Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strange
behaviour.'

Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room.

See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages
and up the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips,
that swift silent tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce
purpose, rather than a woman. The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in
the gallery, making mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of
polished breast-plates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery.
There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows it well. And as a dragon-fly
wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to the
cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket. In three
minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying
along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads the
windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon
her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket,
clenching the handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of its
sheath.

She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacing
boughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom--as if every next
leap must be its last. Wait, wait, O heart!--till she has done this one
deed. He will be there--he will be before her in a moment. He will come
towards her with that false smile, thinking s