The woman bent and lifted the other--up, into her arms. “Didst thou hear me call?” she said caressingly. “And what wert thou dreaming of, dearest?” “Great God!” thought Ned, “is this Théroigne, in actual truth, a fiend!” “Dreaming!” said the girl softly; “of what am I always dreaming, Théroigne?” “Of what, indeed! Of things lost and longed for? Perhaps, sometimes of the little poor brother that was murdered and hidden in a tree?” A voice shrieked at her back. “Damnation seize thee!” She let fall her burden and, scrambling to her feet, turned upon the voice. “What, then!” “So wanton!” cried Ned--“so wanton and so cruel!” His fury leapt in a moment, like a boiling spring. He could not have explained or controlled it--could not even have traced its source to a deep incorruptible chivalry that was instinctive to _his_ sex and beyond the understanding of the other. “Cruel?” she exclaimed madly. “And am I not thy delegate--thy informer?” “Not, so to take advantage, like a cursed _mouchard_, of this poor drugged wretch!” he cried. “Why, God in heaven! are _you_ so much less foul----?” “You devil!” she cut in--“you dog! Didst thou not thyself, a minute ago, slander her behind her back?” “I accused her openly,” cried Ned--“as I accuse her now!” A stifled scream of agony answered him. He looked into a corner of the room, whence, from shadow, the sound had come. The dreamer--momentarily half stupefied by her fall--had risen, while they raged, and stood shrunk into an angle of the wall. Théroigne leapt upon her--seized her by a wrist. “Look!” she screeched, “upon him that thou wouldst give thy life to see, not being seen; to prevail with whom thou wouldst sacrifice thy honour and thy fame with heaven. Hear him now--how he regards thy devotion. Tell him--tell me, rather--he lies. Tell me thou art not a murderess; and I will crush the slander back upon him till it tears like a splintered rib into his heart!” She stood quivering--glaring--worrying the arm she held. “Speak!” she panted brokenly, “and leave the rest to me.” A moment’s silence succeeded the terrible outcry. “It is true what he says,” then whispered Nicette. “I murdered Baptiste.” Théroigne dropped the wrist she clutched, and swung back heavily against the wall. “My God!” she muttered, “my God!” Then she mastered herself faintly, like a weary creature. “It was my last hope--the queen, the gentle mother. To justify, through her handmaid, the passion of woman for man. It is ended. There is no good in the world--no truth--no virtue. Oh, my heart, my heart!” She caught herself from the cry, in a rally of quiet fury; pointed to the door, her arm extended along the wall. “You have killed my faith,” she said. Her gesture was crowningly significant. Without a word, the girl stole fearfully from her shadowy covert--hurried across the room--passed from it, and was gone. * * * * * * * *