the fold of her bosom.

"Go on," she said; "and he?"

"He answered me in the strangest quiet way imaginable. 'You insulted
Lady Featherstone at Ohlau, Mr. Wogan,' said he, 'one evening when she
hid behind your curtain. It was a very delicate piece of drollery, no
doubt. But I shall be glad to show you another, view of it.' It is
strange how that had rankled in his thoughts. I liked him for it,--upon
my soul, I did,--though it was the only thing I liked in him."

"Go on," said Lady Featherstone. Mr. Wogan's likes or dislikes were of
no more interest to her than the failure of her effort to hinder the
marriage.

"We went to the bottom of the garden where there is a little square of
lawn hedged in with myrtle-trees. The night was very dark, so we
stripped to our shirts. From the waist upwards we were visible to each
other as a vague glimmer of white, and thus we fought, foot to foot,
among the myrtle-trees. We could not see so much as our swords unless
they clashed more than usually hard, and a spark struck from them. We
fought by guesswork and feel, and in the end luck served me. I drove my
sword through his chest until the hilt rang upon his breast-bone."

Then just a movement from Lady Featherstone as though she drew up her
feet beneath her.

"He lived for perhaps five minutes. He was in great distress lest harm
should come to you; and since there was no one but his enemy to whom he
could speak, why, he spoke to his enemy. I promised him, madam, that
with his death the story should be closed, if you left Italy within the
week."

"And he?" she interrupted,--"he died there. Well?"

"You know the laurel hedge by the sun-dial? There is an out-house where
the gardener keeps his tools. I found a spade there, and beneath that
laurel hedge I buried him."

Lady Featherstone rose to her feet. She spoke no word; she uttered no
cry; her face was white and terrible. She stood rigid like one
paralysed; then she swayed round and fell in a swoon upon the floor. And
as she fell, something bright slipped from her hand and dropped at
Wogan's feet. He picked it up. It was a stiletto. He stood looking down
at the childish figure with a queer compassionate smile upon his face.
"She could love," said he; "yes, she could love."

He walked out of the house, led his horse back onto the road and mounted
it. The night was gathering; there were purple shadows upon the
Apennines. Wogan rode away alone.

EPILOGUE

Sir Charles