“You are very kind; but I want no friendship, Sir Norman--nothing but revenge! As to escaping, I could have done that any time since we came here, for I have found out a secret means of exit from each of these vaults, that they know nothing of. But I have staid to see him dead at my feet--if not by my hand, at least by my command; and since you will not do it, I will make the attempt myself. Farewell, Sir Norman Kingsley; before many minutes you will be a corpse, and your blood be upon yourself!” She gave him a glance as coldly fierce as her dagger's glance, and turned to go, when he stepped hastily forward, and interposed: “Miranda--Miranda--you are crazed! Stop and tell me what you intend to do.” “What you feared to attempt,” she haughtily replied; “Sheathe this dagger in his demon heart!” “Miranda, give me the dagger. You must not, you shall not, commit such a crime!” “Shall not?” she uttered scornfully. “And who are you that dares to speak to me like this? Stand aside, coward, and let me pass!” “Pardon me, but I cannot, while you hold that dagger. Give it to me, and you shall go free; but while you hold it with this intention, for your own sake, I will detain you till some one comes.” She uttered a low, fierce cry, and struck at him with it, but he caught her hand, and with sudden force snatched it from her. In doing so he was obliged to hold it with its point toward her, and struggling for it in a sort of frenzy, as he raised the hand that held it, she slipped forward and it was driven half-way to the hilt in her side. There was a low, grasping cry--a sudden clasping of both hands over her heart, a sway, a reel, and she fell headlong prostrate on the loathsome floor. Sir Norman stood paralyzed. She half raised herself on her elbow, drew the dagger from the wound, and a great jet of blood shot up and crimsoned her hands. She did not faint--there seemed to be a deathless energy within her that chained life strongly in its place--she only pressed both hands hard over the wound, and looked mournfully and reproachfully up in his face. Those beautiful, sad, solemn eyes, void of everything savage and fierce, were truly Leoline's eyes now. Through all his first shock of horror, another thing dawned on his mind; he had looked on this scene before. It was the second view in La Masque's caldron, and but one remained to be verified. The next instant, he was down on his knees in a paroxysm of grief and despair. “What have I done? what have I done?” was his cry. “Listen!” she said, faintly raising one finger. “Do you hear that?” Distant steps were echoing along the passage. Yes; he heard them, and knew what they were.