“Perhaps, now, but let me ask you this question: When you were being dragged away by those three men, when they were putting miles and miles between you and your friends, of whom were you thinking? Ah, your face, your eyes betray you!--You were thinking of Philip Quentin, not of Ugo Ravorelli. You were praying that one strong arm might come to your relief, you knew but one man in all the world who had the courage, the love, the power to rescue you. Last night, when you entered this dismal place, you wondered if Philip Quentin--yes, Philip Quentin--could break down the doors and save you. And then you remembered that he could not help you, for you had thrown aside his love, had driven him away. Listen! Don't deny it, for I am a woman and I know! This morning you looked from yon window and your heart sank with despair. Then, forgetful again, your eye swept the road in the hope of seeing--of seeing, whom? But one man was in your mind, Dorothy Garrison, and he was on the ocean. When you came into the breakfast room, whose face was it that sent the thrill to your heart? Whose presence was it that told you your prayers had been answered? Whom did you look upon as your savior, your rescuer? That big American, who loves you better than life. Philip Quentin had saved you from the brigands, and you loved him for it. Now, Dorothy Garrison, you hate him because he saved you from a worse fate--marriage with the most dissolute hypocrite in Europe, the most cunning of all adventurers. You are not trying to check the tears that blind your eyes; but you will not confess to me that your tears come from a heart full of belief in the man who loves you deeply enough to risk his honor and his life to save you from endless misery. Lie where you are, on this couch, Dorothy, and just think of it all--think of Phil.” When Dorothy raised her wet eyes from the cushion in which they had been buried, Lady Saxondale was gone. Philip Quentin stood in the doorway. XXIII. HIS ONLY In an instant she was on her feet and struggling to suppress the sobs that had been wrung from her by the words of Lady Saxondale. “Dorothy,” said Quentin, his voice tender and pleading, “you have heard what Lady Saxondale had to say?” She was now standing at the window, her back to him, her figure straight and defiant, her hands clenched in the desperate effort to regain her composure. “Yes,” she responded, hoarsely.