rms around his neck. He made no response, nor did he
thrust her away. He remained quite passive.

"It is not that, uncle. Oh, listen to me. Do not thrust me away. I
cannot do this thing."

He sat as still as marble. There was no change, no emotion in his face.
Yet her heart sank within her.

"Oh, listen to me," she pleaded passionately. "You do not know her as
she is now. She is good and kind--a gentle-hearted woman. It was so long
ago; and it was not out of malice to you, but to save the man she loved.
You hear me, do you not? You are listening. She has not forgotten you.
Often she sorrows for you. It was cruel--I know that it was cruel--but
she was a woman, and she loved him. Let us steal away together and bury
these dark dreams of the past. I will never leave you; I will wait upon
you always; I will be your slave. Forgiveness is more sweet than
vengeance. Oh, tell me that it shall be so. Why do you not speak to me?"

He sat quite still, like a man who is stunned by some sudden and
unexpected blow. He seemed dazed. She wondered, even, whether he had
heard her.

"Uncle, shall it not be so?" she whispered. "Let us go away from here
and leave her. I am not thinking about him. I will not see him again. I
will never dream of marrying him. Let us go this very day, this very
hour!"

Then he turned slowly toward her, thrust her hand from around his neck,
and stood up.

"You have been false to me, Margharita," he said, in a slow, quiet tone.
"After all, it is only natural. When you first came to me, I thought I
saw your mother's spirit blazing in your dark eyes, and I trusted you. I
was to blame. I forgot the tradesman's blood. I do not curse you. You do
not understand, that is all. Learn now that the oath of a Marioni is as
deathless and unchangeable as the hills of his native land. Will you go
away at once, please? I do not wish to see you again."

His speech so quiet, so self-contained, bewildered her. There was not a
single trace of passion or bitterness in it. She stretched out her hands
toward him, but she felt chilled.

"Uncle, you----"

"Will you go away, please?" he interrupted coldly.

She turned toward the door, weeping. She had not meant to go far--only
out on to the garden-seat, where she might sit and think. But he saw
another purpose in her departure, and a sudden passion fired him. She
heard his step as he rose hastily, and she felt his cold fingers upon
her wrist.

"You would go to warn her!" h