“Then hear me, Herminia, though verily my love transcends all speech and thought, for ’tis of Infinity itself. With thee beside me life should become more worthy for thy sake ... without thee ’twere an emptiness, and death a lovely thing. Marry me, Herminia; see here upon my knees I supplicate.” For a long moment Herminia was speechless because of her heart’s tumultuous beating, her cheeks aglow, her eyes very tender beneath their drooping lashes; but from Sir John, thus kneeling in his new humility, her glance wandered to the shattered china ornament, the overturned chair, the jagged rent in her gown, and from her parted lips trilled sudden laughter, and, or ever she might check it, Sir John was upon his feet, viewing her beneath wrinkling brows, coldly curious. “Ah, my Lady Barrasdaile,” said he softly, “in this sorry world are to be found miserable wretches who, to vent their puny spite, will foully desecrate the holiest of holies.... My love was a holy thing, and you, for your foolish pride’s sake, would make a mock of it. Here, madam, I read the grand culmination o’ your empty vengeance. Well, so be it. But I tell you that ‘the Wicked Dering’ at his worst could never sink to such depths as yours——” At this she turned and would have left him, but his out-thrust arm stayed her. “One moment longer, madam!” he commanded. “Your vengeance is complete, but ... my bitterest scorn goeth with you now and——” “Your scorn!” she cried in choking voice; and, seizing his arm that still barred her escape, she wrenched and twisted it in furious hands until he winced with the pain of it. “Your scorn!” she panted. “You whose hands are red with blood!” “God’s love, madam!” quoth he between pallid lips. “And was it you indeed who with her own body would ha’ shielded me from an assassin’s stroke?” “And is it you would remember a moment of hysteria?” she retorted passionately. Sir John recoiled. “Hysteria?” he stammered. “Hysteria? And was it so, indeed? Nay—nay, madam, what mean ye?” “That the irresistible Sir John Dering hath met one woman at the least who doth not succumb to his wiles and blandishments.” “Unworthy!” he exclaimed. “Oh, base and most unworthy!” But now, the door open at last, she fled from him and up the narrow stair.... And after some while Sir John took hat and cloak and stumbled forth into the golden afternoon, but for him it might have been blackest midnight. Her Grace of Connington, returning at last by way of the wicket gate, stole into the little house, her bright eyes a little brighter even than usual; but in the act of laying off her sun-bonnet, paused, arrested by a sound from the chamber overhead, and, running up the stair with surprising agility, discovered my Lady Herminia face down upon the floor among the ruin of her crumpled finery. “Why, Herminia ... dear child!” she cried. “O my love ... my precious soul—what is it?”