wrathful devil was cast out. It was raging within him then,
untamed and dangerous as ever.

"Do you dare to insult her now that she is dead--and to me, not a month
after I have lost her? It is not safe: take care, take care!"

The tempest of his passion made him forget, for the first time in his
life, the weakness of her who had roused it.

Flora was only a woman after all, though haughty and bold of spirit as
any that had breathed. Her own outbreak of anger vanished before that
terrible burst of wrath, just as the camp-fire, when the prairie is
blazing, is swallowed up in the great roaring torrent of flame. She
bowed her head on her hands, trembling all over in pure physical fear.
Guy felt ashamed when he saw the effect of his violence, and spoke more
gently than he had done yet.

"Forgive me. I was very wrong; but I have not learned to control
myself--I never shall, I fear; but you ought not to say such words, even
if I could bear them better. Now it is time that we should part; you
have staid here too long already. You must not risk your reputation for
me, who can not even be grateful for the venture. We shall never meet
again, if we can avoid it; it would be strange to do so as mere
acquaintance, and in any other way--no, don't stop me--it is impossible.
It will be long before I go much into society again, so I shall not
cross your path."

Flora knew it was hopeless then. She was quite broken down, and did not
raise her head from her hand, through the fingers of which, half shading
her face, the tears trickled fast. Guy heard her murmur, very low and
plaintively, "I have loved you so long--so dearly!"

Mistress as she was of every art that can deceive, I believe she only
spoke the simple truth then. With all the energy of her strong and
sensual nature, I believe she did worship Livingstone. To most men she
would have been far more dangerous thus, in the abandonment of her
sorrow, than ever she had been in the insolence of her splendid beauty.

There are some women, very few (Johnson's fair friend, Sophy
Streatfield, was one), whom weeping does not disfigure. Their eyelids do
not get red or swollen; only the iris softens for a moment; and the
drops do not streak or blot the polished cheeks, but glitter there,
singly, like dew on marble; their sobs are well regulated, and follow in
a certain rhythm; and the heaving bosom sinks and swells, not too
stormily. It is a rare accomplishment. Miss Bellasys had not pra