“Who can answer this better than yourself?” cried she, bitterly. “And yet, was it not the whole aim and object of my existence to be otherwise? Did I not venture everything for your love?” “If you would have me talk with you, speak no more of this. You have it in your power to do me a great service, or work me a great injury; for the first, I mean to be more than grateful; that is, I would pay all I could command; for the last, your recompense must be in the hate you bear me. Decide which path you will take, and let me face my future as best I may.” “There is one other alternative, Loo, which you have forgotten.” “What is it?” “Can you not forgive me?” said he, almost sobbing as he spoke. “I cannot,--I cannot,” said she. “You ask me for more than any human heart could yield. All that the world can heap upon me of contempt would be as nothing to what I should feel for myself if I stooped to that. No, no; follow out your vengeance if it must be, but spare me to my own heart.” “Do you know the insults you cast upon me?” cried he, savagely. “Are you aware that it is to my own ears you speak these words?” “Do not quarrel with me because I deal honestly by you,” said she, firmly. “I will not promise that I cannot pay. Remember, too, Ludlow, that what I ask of you I do not ask from your generosity. I make no claim to what I have forfeited all right. I simply demand the price you set upon a certain article of which to _me_ the possession is more than life. I make no concealment from you. I own it frankly--openly.” “You want your letters, and never to hear more of _me_!” said he, sternly. “What sum will you take for them?” said she, in a slow, whispering voice. “You ask what will enable you to set me at defiance forever, Loo! Say it frankly and fairly. You want to tear your bond and be free.” She did not speak, and he went on,-- “And you can ask this of the man you abhor! you can stoop to solicit him whom, of all on earth, you hate the most!” Still she was silent. “Well,” said he, after a lengthened pause, “you shall have them. I will restore them to you. I have not got them here,--they are in England,-- but I will fetch them. My word on it that I will keep my pledge. I see,” added he, after an interval, in which he expected she would speak, but was still silent,--“I see how little faith you repose in a promise. You cannot spare one word of thanks for what you regard as so uncertain; but I can endure this, for I have borne worse. Once more, then, I swear to you, you shall have your letters back. I will place them myself in your hands, and before witnesses too. Remember that, Loo--before witnesses!” And with these words, uttered with a sort of savage energy, he turned away from her, and was soon lost in the crowd. “I have followed you this hour, Loo,” said a low voice beside her. She turned and took the speaker's arm, trembling all over, and scarcely able to keep from falling.