ted. It is her turn to suffer
humiliation, and he has determined she shall. Recalling his own, every
spark of pity, every pulsation of manhood, is extinguished within him.
The cup of his scorned love has become a chalice filled with the passion
of vengeance.

Sheathing the knife, he says:

"I've been longing for a good look at you. Now that I've got it, I
should say you're pretty as ever, only paler. That will come right, and
the roses return to your cheeks, in this recuperative climate of Texas;
especially in the place where I intend taking you. But you hav'nt yet
looked at my face. It's just had a washing for your sake. Come give it
a glance! I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite so
handsome as that of Charley Clancy."

She averts her eyes, instinctively closing them.

"Oh, well, you won't? Never mind, now. There's a time coming when
you'll not be so coy, and when I shan't any longer kneel supplicating
you. For know, Nell, you're completely in my power, and I can command,
do with you what I will. I don't intend any harm, nor mean to be at all
unkind. It'll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. And
knowing that, why shouldn't there be truce between us? What's the use
of fretting about Clancy? He's dead as a door nail, and your lamenting
won't bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, and
cheer up. If you've lost one sweetheart, there's another left, who
loves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by God, I do!"

The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending before
her, and laying his hand upon his heart.

Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as ever, still,
silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket--whose pattern of Aztec design
bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt--this closed and
corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one
of Pharaoh's daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for
centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin,
negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes
tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing
in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be
asleep, or dead.

Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving
no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He
has lost control of his temper, and now talks unf