“Why should I not know?” asked Betty. “Are you the only woman in the world who has been fool enough to fall in love? Can I not be as much in love as you are? You smile, and think to yourself that the poor relation, Betty, cannot feel like her rich cousin. But I do—I do. I know that he is a villain, but I love this marquis as much as you hate him, or as much as you love Peter, because I can’t help myself; it is my luck, that’s all. But I am not going to throw myself out of a window; I would rather throw him out and square our reckoning, and that I swear I’ll do, in this way or the other, even if it should cost me what I don’t want to lose—my life.” And Betty drew herself up beneath the silver lamp with a look upon her handsome, determined face, which was so like Margaret’s and yet so different, that, could he have seen it, might well have made Morella regret that he had chosen this woman for a tool. While Margaret studied her wonderingly she heard a sound, and glanced up to see, standing before them, none other than the beautiful Spaniard, or Moor, for she knew not which she was, Inez, that same woman whom, from her hiding-place in the tower, she had watched with Peter in the garden. “How did you come here?” she asked coldly. “Through the door, Señora, that was left unlocked, which is not wise of those who wish to talk privately in such a place as this,” she answered with a humble curtsey. “The door is still unlocked,” said Margaret, pointing towards it. “Nay, Señora, you are mistaken; here is its key in my hand. I pray you do not tell your lady to put me out, which, being so strong, she well can do, for I have words to say to you, and if you are wise you will listen to them.” Margaret thought a moment, then answered: “Say on, and be brief.” CHAPTER XVI. BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH. “Señora,” said Inez, “you think that you have something against me.” “No,” answered Margaret, “you are—what you are; why should I blame you?” “Well, against the Señor Brome then?” “Perhaps, but that is between me and him. I will not discuss it with you.” “Señora,” went on Inez, with a slow smile, “we are both innocent of what you thought you saw.” “Indeed; then who is guilty?” “The Marquis of Morella.” Margaret made no answer, but her eyes said much. “Señora, you do not believe me, nor is it wonderful. Yet I speak the truth. What you saw from the tower was a play in which the Señor Brome took his part badly enough, as you may have noticed, because I told him that my life hung on it. I have nursed him through a sore sickness, Señora, and he is not ungrateful.” “So I judged; but I do not understand you.”