What really troubled me and made it hard for me to decide was not the danger, nor even a doubt of my success. On the contrary, I hesitated over a point of honor. I knew very well that the Earl would not approve of this. Could I? I had never, save on the night before, played the part of a spy, and my own name was the last thing in the world I should be ashamed to own. I could fight; but no—I could never be capable of this kind of work. Then I glanced at Lady Marmaduke. There were tears in her eyes, and I knew she must be thinking of her husband. Could I desert her now? I had sworn to be her man. Was it honest and just to turn away from her in the critical moment—the first time she had desired my help? My mind was swaying in the opposite direction when the thought of what Ruth would have said clutched my wavering mind back to the side of truth and honor. Lady Marmaduke must have seen all this passing in my mind or shadowed in my face. It was time for her to put her firm hand upon me and force me the way she would have me go, whether I would or not. It was to my brute passions she appealed, not to my reason. When I had entered the room ten minutes before, she was writing letters, and the candle she used to soften her wax with was still burning upon the table. She took a step towards me and as she did so I noticed the candle flame wave delicately to one side. “Michael,” she said, putting her hand upon my shoulder. “You hesitate and I am ashamed of you.” Her hand moved along my shoulder till her fingers played upon my neck. “I said that I saw no mark upon her body. What if there were prints upon her neck?” At that instant her iron fingers closed on my throat with a grip that made me cry out. “Hush, fool,” she said fiercely, relaxing her grip. “I am not going to choke you; but her throat was delicate and you know how it feels.” Then her manner changed. She spoke quickly and looked towards the candle. “He said he branded her. Perhaps he did. It was night when I looked at her body. One cannot see plain by night. Perhaps he did after all. Did you ever see a person branded? Smell, Michael, smell.” She thrust her left hand into the candle flame. “For God’s sake!” I cried, trying to snatch her hand away. “Stop,” she replied, in her terrible deep voice. At the same moment she caught my rescuing hand and held it in a vise. “Smell. This is what it is like to be branded.” A spell seemed to take hold of me. I had no power to move, but stood still watching her finger scorch in the tall flame. Once I saw it tremble, but she bit her lip and grew steady again. The flesh began to shrivel and then—my God! I caught that horrible stench of burning flesh. “Stop,” I shrieked. “Oh Ruth, Ruth, how I pity you in your pain,” cried my mistress, who held on, enduring that bitter agony to make me succumb to her will. Then the sickening smell came again stronger than ever. “Ruth, Ruth, Ruth! The bloodhound! Stop. I’ll go, I’ll go. Oh my God, my God, my God!”