The crowd passed and their shouts rose faintly above the busy hum of life in the city, and then at last died away altogether. Corianton had remained in the alley way from which he had seen and heard what is described above; there he stood trembling from head to foot in an agony of shame and terror. At last he walked away, and rather from instinct than design he retraced his footsteps in the direction of Seantum's. CHAPTER ELEVEN. FACE TO FACE. As he walked along Corianton increased his speed; passion rocked his frame, and a deep design for revenge filled his heart. He passed down the path with rapid strides and entered the hall of Seantum's dwelling. Here he met a maid who had attended on Joan--Isabel,--and in whose company he had left her the night before. "Where is your mistress, maid?" he demanded in no gentle tones. "She is yet in her room, sir prophet," said the maid, trembling with fear. "And where is that room?" "The first door to the left opens to a passage leading to it; shall I say to my mistress you would see her?" "No," he replied in tones husky with anger. "I will see her unannounced. Small need to stand on ceremony with such as she." And with a few rapid strides he reached the door indicated, and entered the passage leading to the splendid rooms set apart for the use of Isabel. He threw aside the heavy curtain drawn across the passage and stood in the presence of the woman bent on his destruction. She was seated on a low ottoman with a silver mirror in her hand and a slave was just putting the finishing touches to her toilet. She hastily arose as Corianton entered, and intense anger flashed in her dark eyes. "Methinks this entrance is somewhat rude, bold Nephite. At least I should have thought a 'prophet' would have had respect for a maiden's privacy." "Aye, no doubt he would. All men would respect a maiden's privacy; the most licentious wretch would tremble did he invade its hallowed precinct. But who respects the privacy of a commoner? Who pauses on the threshold of a strumpet?" "Commoner? Strumpet?" echoed Isabel, choking with rage, "what mean you?" "Mean? mean?" he cried, "I mean that the mask behind which you would hide as Joan is snatched away. I mean that you are a base harlot; that that fair face is besmirked with loathsome filth, that the sweet tones of your voice, the arch smile, that angel form, are but the blandishments of hell to decoy men to ruin. I mean that you with your paramours conspired to work my undoing; and I, fool-like, must walk in midday light into your traps." He had approached her at this climax of his passion and seized her by the throat! With a shriek she sank upon her knees before him in terror. Finding her helpless in his grasp, he recovered his self-control sufficiently to loose his hold.