"It will not pass my lips," he murmurs, "it will not;--my _idee fixe_ has assailed me again with a strength that I cannot master, try as I may,--it perverts and absorbs my sense of duty, my conscientiousness.--Mother....!" the blood rushes to his face, "Mother--could you forgive me if, in a fit of madness, I struck you in the face?" Can she ever forget the imploring, despairing tone of his voice? "Yes, what do you wish?--I cannot understand--" she stammers. He gazes at her in surprise. "Mother!" he exclaims--his breath comes short and quick, when, as though repeating memorised phrases, he says, "Capriani and I have quarrelled--to revenge himself upon me he has written me a letter in which he says that you----" he sees her sudden start--"Great God! can you dream of what he accuses you?" She gasps for breath, her lips part, she tries with all her strength to say "no!"--has God stricken her dumb? Struggle as she may only a faint gasp issues from her lips, no word can she speak! "Mother!" he moans, "Mother!" She is mute. The ground seems to rock beneath his feet, the outlines of every object grow indistinct, dissolve into undefined spots of colour which fade and mingle. For a moment he stands as if turned to stone; then he turns towards the door, walking slowly as if under a crushing weight,--on a sudden he hears the rustle of skirts behind him, two frail, ice-cold hands clasp his arm;--half-fainting his mother crouches beside him on the floor. "My son! my child!" she gasps "Have mercy!" But he loosens the clasp of her hands, without impatience, without anger, with the apathy of a man whose heart has been slain in his breast, and leaves the room. CHAPTER XII.