"Hear me to the end," said Ernestine, more and more animated by a noble ardour. "My words cannot do you the harm that yours might have done me. I deeply regret that my efforts could have been for one moment confounded with yours, and therefore I will clear myself to your better self, without an instant's delay, from the suspicion of abetting you in any way. Let me tell you that my purpose is solely to vindicate the intellectual honour of my sex,--to enlarge the bounds of our ability, not of our will. Emancipation of the spirit is the goal for which I strive. Or, to speak more plainly, you work for the emancipation of the flesh,--I for emancipation from the flesh. You see our efforts are as wide asunder as the poles; and, I tell you frankly, I fear the shadow that intercourse with you would cast upon my pure cause." The countess drew around her her mantle of black lace, that had slipped from her shoulders, and shrouded herself in it as in a cloud, then stepped up to Ernestine, who had also risen from her seat, raised her hand, and said in a tone of menace, "You will repent this." Ernestine calmly returned her gaze. "I scarcely think so, Countess Worronska. Thanks to my occupations, I stand entirely outside of the sphere where you could harm me." "I could kill you!" hissed the countess, gasping for breath, while the blood rushed to her head and the room grew dark before her eyes. "Oh, no, you neither could nor would," said Ernestine with cutting contempt. "You would not afford the world the spectacle of so bold a champion of our freedom ending her days in penal confinement." "You are right,--it would be folly to commit a crime when easier means would gain the same end. I will deal you a death-blow, and your life shall bleed slowly away, and none of our excellent laws can touch me. I will wrest from you the man whom you love. I will,--and, trust me, what I will I can." Ernestine said not a word. She was benumbed, as if by a blow. She did not see the countess leave the room,--she saw only, by the glare of the burning torch that the wretched woman had hurled into her breast, her own heart. Was she, then, in love? And with whom? CHAPTER VIII. "WHEN WOMEN HOLD THE REINS." Breathless with rage, the Worronska descended the stairs and left the house. A groom was driving a splendid carriage-and-four up and down before the house. She beckoned to him; he drove up and sprang down to assist his mistress, who, mounted upon the box, took the reins and whip, and, relieved by being able to vent her wrath upon some living thing, cut viciously at her impatient horses. The groom sprang nimbly into his place behind her, and away like the wind went the modern Victory in her triumphal chariot, as if rushing to breathe vengeance and hate into hosts fighting upon the battle-plain.