The girl was clear-headed and intelligent. They would go away together, and Lucy would find a hiding-place somewhere for her wretched head. But, oh! the shame, the misery of it all! Leslie Dane was alive, yet she who was his wife in the sight of Heaven dare not rejoice in the knowledge. His resurrection from his supposed death had fixed a blighting hand upon her beautiful brow. "Oh, God!" she moaned, wringing her white hands helplessly, "what have I done to deserve this heavy cross?" The minutes passed slowly, but Lucy did not return. The little French _pendule_ on the mantel chimed the quarters of the hour three times while Bonnibel sat drooping in her chair alone. Then the door was pushed rudely open and Colonel Carlyle entered. In her dumb agony the creature failed to look up or even to distinguish the difference in the step of Colonel Carlyle. "You saw him, Lucy?" she asked, without lifting her head. There was no reply. She looked up in surprise at the girl's silence and saw Colonel Carlyle standing in the center of the room regarding her fixedly. Bonnibel had seen him jealous and enraged before, but she had never seen him look as he did then. The veins stood on his forehead like thick, knotted cords. His face was purple with excitement, his eyes glared like those of a wild animal, his hands were clenched. It seemed as though he only restrained himself by a powerful effort of will from springing upon and rending her to pieces. Thus convulsed and speechless he stood gazing down upon her. "Oh, Colonel Carlyle, you are ill," she exclaimed, regarding him in terror. "Shall I not ring for assistance?" He did not answer, but continued to gaze upon her in the same stony silence. Fearing that he was suddenly seized with some kind of a fit, she sprang up and shook him violently by the arm. But he shook off her grasp with such force and passion that she lost her balance and fell heavily to the floor. Half stunned by the violence of the fall she lay quite still a moment, with closed eyes and gasping breath. He looked at her as she lay there like a broken flower, but made no effort to assist her. Presently the dark blue eyes flashed open and looked up at him with a quiet scorn in their lovely depths. She made no effort to rise, and when she spoke her voice startled him with its tragic ring. "Finish your work, Colonel Carlyle," she said, in those deep tones. "I will thank you and bless you if you will strike one fatal blow that shall lay me dead at your feet." Something in the words or the tone struck an arrow of remorse into his soul. He bent down and lifted the slight form, gently placing her back in her chair. "Pardon me," he said, coldly, "I did not mean to hurt you, but you should not have touched me. I could not bear the touch of your hand." She lifted her fair face and looked at him in wonder. "Colonel Carlyle, what have I done to _you_?" she asked, in a voice of strange pathos.