“You never did believe; your heart rejected belief. When I said I knew you, I meant it all: I do know you. I know, besides, that when the scaffold received one criminal, it left another, and a worse, behind. For many a year you have made my life a hell. I would not care to go on thus; all your vengeance and all the scorn of the world would be light compared to what I wake to meet each morning, and close my eyes to, as I sleep at night.” “Listen to me, Loo, but for one moment. I do not want to justify myself. You are not more wretched than I am,--utterly, irretrievably wretched!” “Where are the letters?” said she, in a low whisper. “They are here,--in Florence.” “What sum will you take for them?” “They shall be yours unbought, Loo, if you will but hear me. “I want the letters; tell me their price.” “The price is simply one meeting--one opportunity to clear myself before you--to show you how for years my heart has clung to you.” “I cannot buy them at this cost. Tell me how much money you will have for them.” “It is your wish to outrage, to insult me, then?” muttered he, in a voice thick with passion. “Now you are natural; now you are yourself; and now I can speak to you. Tell me your price.” “Your shame!--your open degradation! The spectacle of your exposure before all Europe, when it shall have been read in every language and talked of in every city.” “I have looked for that hour for many a year, Paul Hunt, and its arrival would be mercy, compared with the daily menace of one like _you_.” “The story of the murder again revived; the life you led, the letters themselves revealing it; the orphan child robbed of her inheritance; the imposture of your existence abroad here!--what variety in the scenes! what diversity in the interests!” “I am far from rich, but I would pay you liberally, Paul,” said she, in a voice low and collected. “Cannot you see, woman, that by this language you are wrecking your last hope of safety?” cried he, insolently. “Is it not plain to you that you are a fool to insult the hand that can crush you?” “But I _am_ crushed; I can fall no lower,” whispered she, tremulously. “Oh, dearest Loo, if you would forgive me for the past!” “I cannot--I cannot!” burst she out, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “I have done all I could, but I cannot!” “If you only knew how I was tempted to it, Loo! If you but heard the snare that was laid for me!” A scornful toss of her head was all her answer. “It is in my consciousness of the wrong I have done you that I seek this reparation, Loo,” said he, eagerly. “When I speak otherwise, it is my passion gives utterance to the words. My heart is, however, true to you.” “Will you let me have my letters, and at what cost? I tell you again, I am not rich, but I will pay largely, liberally here.”