“Did Gheta tell you that?” Lavinia demanded. A growing resentment took possession of her. “Because if she did, she lied!” “Ah!” Mochales whispered sharply. “They're both mad,” Orsi told her, “and should be dipped in the bay.” Never had Abrego y Mochales appeared handsomer; never more like fine bronze. That latter fact struck her forcibly. His face was no more mutable than a mask of metal. Its stark rigidity sent a cold tremor to her heart. “And,” she went on impetuously, “since Gheta said that, I'll tell you really about this necklace: Cesare gave it to her because he was sorry for her; because he thought that perhaps he had misled her. He spoke of it to me first.” “No, signora,” the Spaniard responded deliberately; “it is not your sister who lies.” Cesare Orsi exclaimed angrily. He took a hasty step; but Lavinia, quicker, moved between the two men. “This is impossible,” she declared, “and must stop immediately! It is childish!” There was now a metallic ring in Mochales' voice that disturbed her even more than his words. The bull-fighter, completely immobile, seemed a little inhuman; he was without a visible stir of emotion, but Orsi looked more puzzled and angry every moment. “This,” he ejaculated, “in my own house--infamous!” “Signor Mochales,” Lavinia reiterated, “what I have told you is absolutely so.” “Your sister, signora, has said something different.... She did not want to tell me, but I persisted--I saw that something was wrong--and forced it from her.” “Enough!” Orsi commanded. “One can see plainly that you have been duped; some things may be overlooked.... You have talked enough.” Mochales moved easily forward. “You pudding!” he said in a low even voice. “Do you talk to me--Abrego y Mochales?” A dark tide of passion, visible even in the night, flooded Orsi's countenance. “Leave!” he insisted, “Or I'll have you flung into the bay.” A deep silence followed, in which Lavinia could hear the stir of the water against the walls below. A sharp fear entered her heart, a new dread of the Spaniard. He was completely outside the circle of impulses which she understood and to which she reacted. He was not a part of her world; he coldly menaced the foundations of all right and security. Her worship of romance died miserably. In a way, she thought, she was responsible for the present horrible situation; it was the result of the feeling she had had for Mochales. Lavinia was certain that if Gheta had not known of it the Spaniard would have been quickly dropped by the elder. She was suddenly conscious of the perfume he always bore; that, curiously, lent him a strange additional oppression. “Mochales,” he said in a species of strained wonderment, “threatened ... thrown into the bay! Mochales--the Flower of Spain! And by a helpless mound of fat, a tub of entrails----” “Cesare!” Lavinia cried in an energy of desperation. “Come! Don't listen to him.” Orsi released her grasp.