“Cannot your heart understand mine?” she cried recklessly. “Does it not pity my wretchedness?” He was silent for a moment. He knew he could no longer parry with her, for her words and meaning were too plain to admit of any misunderstanding. He turned to her, his face set and firm. “Lady Glencairn,” he said sternly, “you dishonor yourself by such madness, and all for naught. My heart is noo numb with sorrow, it could feel no throb of yours, even were I vile enough to see no evil in usurping your husband’s rights.” “Do not remind me of my unhappiness!” she exclaimed impatiently. “I married him when I was a girl, before I knew what love was. Then you came into my life, and I knew that the fire of love was not dead within me.” Her rich seductive voice trembled with passion. “I pray you cease!” he entreated her, but she went on rapidly. “Let me speak, Robert!” she cried, clinging to him frantically. “I can no longer contain myself, for I love you better than my life, better than my honor, my good name; I care not for them now. Oh, pity me, pity me!” and she flung herself down on her knees before him and burst into a storm of irrepressible weeping. Robert looked around apprehensively. The thought that someone might suddenly enter the room filled him with alarmed dismay. With a quick movement he raised her to her feet, and his voice trembled with deep feeling when he next spoke. “I do pity you,” he said sorrowfully, “but I pity your husband more, when he learns of your faithlessness.” He paused and regarded her with reproachful sadness. “Oh, why have you severed forever the threads of our friendship by such imprudence, such rashness?” As he finished he bowed his head and walked slowly toward the door. “Do not leave me like this!” she panted desperately. “Can’t you see you are killing me by your coldness.” She held out her arms in piteous entreaty as she continued tenderly, “Tell me you didn’t mean it, Robert. Say you are but testing my love for you.” He turned on her quickly and at his look of contemptuous scorn she drooped her head and the hot blood rushed to her face. “Are you lost to all sense of prudence, honor and decency?” he cried in scathing accents. “Heaven knows I’m no moralist, no saint,” and he gave a mirthless little laugh as he thought of the opinion Edinburgh had formed concerning his morality—then he went on firmly, solemnly, “But I would sooner cut this erring heart of mine out of this body than fall so low as to betray the honor of my friend who trusts me.” She started to speak again, but he raised his hand quickly. “Say no more, Lady Glencairn,” he said with calm dignity, “an’ I’ll forget this distressing conversation, and continue thro’ life to respect equally with himself, the wife of my friend.” Slowly the warm color faded from her cheeks, leaving her ashy pale, while through her suddenly narrowed eyelids a vindictive light gleamed tigerishly.