And thus, one day, yielding as she had been ever wont to yield, to the impulse of her quick Italian heart--how she never remembered--in what words she could never recall--she spoke--she owned her love--she pleaded, with tears and blushes, for love in return. All that passed was to her as a dream--a dream from which she woke with a fierce sense of agony, of humiliation--woke as the "woman scorned." No matter how gratefully, how tenderly, Leonard had replied--the reply was refusal. For the first time she learned she had a rival; that all he could give of love was long since, from his boyhood, given to another. For the first time in her life that ardent nature knew jealousy, its torturing stings, its thirst for vengeance, its tempest of loving hate. But, to outward appearance, silent and cold she stood as marble. Words that sought to soothe fell on her ear unheeded: they were drowned by the storm within. Pride was the first feeling that dominated the warring elements that raged in her soul. She tore her hand from that which clasped hers with so loyal a respect. She could have spurned the form that knelt, not for love, but for pardon, at her feet. She pointed to the door with the gesture of an insulted queen. She knew no more till she was alone. Then came that rapid flash of conjecture peculiar to the storms of jealousy; that which seems to single from all nature the one object to dread and to destroy; the conjecture so often false, yet received at once by our convictions as the revelation of instinctive truth. He to whom she had humbled herself loved another; whom but Violante?--whom else, young and beautiful, had he named in the record of his life? None! And he had sought to interest her, Beatrice di Negra, in the object of his love--hinted at dangers, which Beatrice knew too well--implied trust in Beatrice's will to protect. Blind fool that she had been! This, then, was the reason why he had come, day after day, to Beatrice's house; this was the charm that had drawn him thither; this--she pressed her hands to her burning temples, as if to stop the torture of thought. Suddenly a voice was heard below, the door opened, and Randal Leslie entered. CHAPTER XXIII. Punctually at eight o'clock that evening, Baron Levy welcomed the new ally he had secured. The pair dined _en tête-à-tête_, discussing general matters till the servants left them to their wine. Then said the Baron, rising and stirring the fire--then said the Baron, briefly and significantly-- "Well!" "As regards the property you spoke of," answered Randal, "I am willing to purchase it on the terms you name. The only point that perplexes me is how to account to Audley Egerton, to my parents, to the world, for the power of purchasing it."