I dreamed of the time when I should stand, a martyr
in their cause, before my old comrades, and demand of them the vengeance
which was my due. I imagined them, one by one, grasping my hand, full of
deep, silent sympathy with my long sufferings. I heard again the oath
which we had sworn--'Vengeance upon traitors, vengeance upon traitors!'
It was the music which kept me alive, the hope which nourished my life!"

The dark eyes glowed upon him like stars, and her voice trembled with
eagerness.

"You have been to them? You will be avenged! Tell me that it is so?"

A little choking sob escaped from him. The numbness was passing away
from his heart and senses. His sorrows were becoming human, and
demanding human expression.

"Alas, Margharita, alas!" he cried, with drooping head, "the bitterest
disappointment of my life came upon me all unawares. While I have lain
rotting in prison history has turned over many pages. The age for secret
societies has gone by. The 'Order of the White Hyacinth' is no
more--worse than that, its very name has been dragged through the dust.
One by one the old members fell away; its sacred aims were forgotten.
The story of its downward path will never be written. A few coarse,
ignorant men meet in a pothouse, night by night, to spend the money I
sent in beer and foul tobacco. That is the end of the 'Order of the
White Hyacinth!'"

Margharita looked like a beautiful wild animal in her passion. Her hair
had fallen all over her face, and was streaming down her back. Her small
white hand was clenched and upraised, and her straight, supple figure,
panther-like in its grace, was distended until she towered over the
little shrunken form before her. Terrible was the gleam in her eyes, and
terrible the fixed rigidity of her features. Yet she was as beautiful as
a young goddess in her wrath.

"No!" she cried fiercely, "the Order shall not die! You belong to it
still; and I--I, too, swear the oath of vengeance! Together we will hunt
her down--this woman! She shall suffer!"

"She shall die!" he cried.

A slight shudder passed across the girl's face, but she repeated his
words.

"She shall die! But, uncle, you are ill. What is it?"

She chafed his hands and held him up. He had fainted.

CHAPTER XVII

THE RETURN TO REASON

"Where am I, Margharita?"

She leaned over him, and drew a long deep breath of relief. It was the
reward of many weary days and nights of constant watching and careful