The Comtesse had no pity for him. The memory of the words he had spoken to her, of his foolish face, of his amorous ways, of the touchings of his hands which she had endured, thronged on her. Her lips curled back over her teeth. Her eyes were hard like shining steel. “I hate you,” she hissed at him. “I have always hated you since the night when you seized me and dragged me into the meeting-house. I would have revenged myself for that even if there had been no prisoner to save from you.” “I did not do that,” said Captain Twinely, “and I did not know who you were at the time. Be just to me even if you hate me. God knows that I would have died to save you from the smallest hurt.” He fell on the ground before her. “Oh,” he cried, “have some pity for me. I love you with all my soul. Let me serve you, let me wait on you. Let me see you sometimes and hear your voice. Have you no pity for me? I do not ask for love, or friendship, or the meanest gift. Only do not hate me. I have led an evil life, I know it, but for your sake, for your sake, if you will pity me, I will do anything. I will be anything you bid me. But do not hate me. For the love of God, by the mercy of Christ the Saviour, do not cast me utterly away from you. Do not hate me.” He crawled forward, and clutched the bottom of her skirt with his hand. With a swift movement she snatched it from his grasp. “I do hate you,” she cried, “and I shall always hate you. From this out I shall always hope and pray and strive to get to heaven when I die, not for the love of the saints or because I think that I shall be happy there, but just because I shall be safe from the sight of you, for you will surely be in hell.” She turned and walked down the path they had ascended together. She left him grovelling on the ground, his face slobbered with tears and grimy with the clay his hands rubbed over it. CHAPTER XIX