"Do you remember, Indiana," he continued, "that you felt even less well than usual that night? Why, I can remember your words as if I had just heard them. 'You will call me insane,' you said, 'but some danger is hovering about us and threatening some one of us--threatening me, I have no doubt,' you added; 'I feel intensely agitated, as if some great crisis in my destiny were at hand--I am afraid!' Those are your very words." "I am no longer ill," said Indiana, who had suddenly turned as pale as at the time of which Sir Ralph spoke; "I no longer believe in such foolish terrors." "But I believe in them," he rejoined, "for you were a true prophet that night, Indiana; a great danger did threaten us--a disastrous influence surrounded this peaceful abode." "_Mon Dieu!_ I do not understand you!" "You soon will understand me, my poor girl. That was the evening that Raymon de Ramière was brought here. Do you remember in what condition?" Ralph paused a few seconds, but dared not look at his cousin. As she made no reply, he continued: "I was told to bring him back to life and I did so, as much to satisfy you as to obey the instincts of humanity; but, in truth, Indiana, it was a great misfortune that I saved that man's life! It was I who did all the harm." "I don't know what you mean by harm!" rejoined Indiana, dryly. She was deeply moved in advance by the explanation which she foresaw. "I mean that unfortunate creature's death," said Ralph. "But for him she would still be alive; but for his fatal love the lovely, honest girl who loved you so dearly would still be at your side." Thus far Madame Delmare did not understand. She was exasperated beyond measure by the strange and cruel method which her cousin adopted to reproach her for her attachment to Monsieur de Ramière. "Enough of this," she said, rising. But Ralph apparently took no notice of her remark. "What always astonished me," he continued, "was that you never guessed the real motive that led Monsieur de Ramière to scale the walls." A suspicion darted through Indiana's mind; her legs trembled under her, and she resumed her seat. Ralph had buried the knife in her breast and made a ghastly wound. He no sooner saw the effect of his work than he hated himself for it; he thought only of the injury he had inflicted on the person whom he loved best in all the world; he felt that his heart was breaking. He would have wept bitterly if he could have wept; but the poor fellow had not the gift of tears; he had naught of that which eloquently translates the language of the heart. The external coolness with which he performed the cruel operation gave him the air of an executioner in Indiana's eyes.