He puts me roughly from him, and, going over to her, seizes her by the wrists and drags her into the full light of the window. "You fiend!" he hisses, beneath his breath. "It was all false, then, the news of your death? You are alive? You are still left to contaminate the earth? Who wrote the tidings that set me, as I believed, free?" "I did," replies the woman, quietly. "I was tired of you. Your milk-and-watery affection, even at the very first, sickened me. I wished to see you no more. I had begun to hate you, and so took that means of ridding myself of you forever. But when I heard of the rich uncle's death--of the money, the grandeur, all that had come to you--I regretted my folly, and started to claim my rights. I am here: repudiate me if you can." I have crept closer; I am staring at Marmaduke. I cannot, I will not, still believe. "Marmaduke, say she is not your wife," I demand, imperiously. "Ay, say it," says the woman, with a smile. I go nearer, and attempt to take his hand. "'Duke, say it, say it!" I cry, feverishly. "Do not touch me!" exclaims he, hoarsely, shrinking away from me. I feel turned to stone--not faint or sick; only numbed, and unable to reason. The Italian bursts into a ringing laugh. "What a situation!" cries she. "What a scene! It is a tragedy, and the peasant is the heroine. I--Carlotta--am the wife, while the white, delicate, proud miladi is only the mist---" Before the vile word can leave her lips, Marmaduke's hand is on her throat. His face is distorted with passion and madness: there is upon it a settled expression of determination that terrifies me more than all that has gone before. His thin nostrils are dilated with rage. His very lips are gray. Already the woman's features are growing discolored. "Marmaduke!" I shriek, tearing at the hand that pinions her to the shutter, "Marmaduke, for _my_ sake--remember--have pity. Oh, what is it you would do?" By a superhuman effort my weak fingers succeed in dragging his hand away, He shivers, and falls back a step or two, while the Italian slowly recovers. "Would you murder me?" she gasps. "Ah! wretch--dog--`beast! But I have a revenge!" She stalks towards the door as she utters this threat, and quickly vanishes. I turn to my--to Marmaduke. "It is true?" I ask. "It is true," he replies, and as he speaks I can scarcely believe the man who stands before me, crushed and aged and heart-broken, is the same gay, handsome young man who entered the room all smiles a few minutes ago. "If _she_ is your wife, what am _I?_" I ask, with unnatural calmness. "Phyllis! Phyllis! my life! forgive me!" he cries, in an anguished tone; and then the room grows suddenly dark; I fall heavily forward into the blackness, and all is forgotten. ---