"You understand me exactly, my lady, do you?" asked Gualtier, earnestly. "You wish it removed--_just as other obstacles have been removed_. You wish never to see him again. You wish to be your own mistress henceforth--and always." "You have stated exactly what I mean," said Hilda, in icy tones. Gualtier was silent for some time. "Lady Chetwynde," said he at length, in a tone which was strikingly different from that with which for years he had addressed her--"Lady Chetwynde, I wish you to observe that this task upon which you now send me is far different from any of the former ones which I have undertaken at your bidding. I have always set out without a word--like one of those Haschishim of whom you have read, when he received the mandate of the Sheik of the mountains. But the nature of this errand is such that I may never see you again. The task is a perilous one. The man against whom I am sent is a man of singular acuteness, profound judgment, dauntless courage, and remorseless in his vengeance. His acuteness may possibly enable him to see through me, and frustrate my plan before it is fairly begun. What then? For me, at least, there will be nothing but destruction. It is, therefore, as if I now were standing face to face with death, and so I crave the liberty of saying something to you this time, and not departing in silence." Gualtier spoke with earnestness, with dignity, yet with perfect respect. There was that in his tone and manner which gave indications of a far higher nature than any for which Hilda had ever yet given him credit. His words struck her strangely. They were not insubordinate, for he announced his intention to obey her; they were not disrespectful, for his manner was full of his old reverence; but they seemed like an assertion of something like manhood, and like a blow against that undisputed ascendency which she had so long maintained over him. In spite of her preoccupation, and her tempestuous passion, she was forced to listen, and she listened with a vague surprise, looking at him with a cold stare. "You seem to me," said she, "to speak as though you were unwilling to go--or afraid." "Pardon me, Lady Chetwynde," said Gualtier, "you can not think that. I have said that I would go, but that, as I may never see you again, I wish to say something. I wish, in fact, now, after all these years, to have a final understanding with you." "Well?" said Hilda.