As this thought crossed his mind the cab stopped, and he became aware of a din of sound, made by the tramping of men and horses, and the blare of brass instruments and the beating of drums. The cabman leaned down and called to him, saying that the way had been crossed by a procession. It would be some time passing. Was monsieur in a great hurry? Harold answered no; and as he turned from the window he glanced toward the woman at his side, and saw that she was leaning back weakly in her corner, deadly pale. Her eyes met his, however, with a wide, direct, unflinching look, and he saw that there was no danger of her fainting. Consciousness, acute and powerful, was written in those eyes. Outside, the crowd pushed and jostled by, while the clatter of hoofs and feet came more distinctly to the ears as the sound of the band moved off in the distance. An instinct to protect that pallid face from being gazed upon made him draw down the thick silk blinds. He did this, explaining his motive to his companion in a few quick words. Then he turned and looked at her, and in the suddenly created gloom their eyes met. He was striving with all his might to keep the fire out of his; but suddenly he became aware of the same effort on her part, as she closed her lids an instant, and then, as if mastered by a feeling stronger than her will, opened them wide, and looked at him again. His heart leaped. His pulses throbbed. His cheeks flushed darkly. He moved a little nearer to her, so that their faces were close, and still her eyes met his with that wild, burning, concentrated gaze. “For God’s sake, what is it?” he said. But she did not move a muscle or an eyelash. She only gave her eyes to his, as one would hold up the printed page of a book to be read and understood. “What is it?” he said again, coming so near as to speak in the lowest whisper, while his hands grasped hard the top of his stick, and his breath came thick and fast. Her eyes still clung to his, but her lips were wordless. “I do not understand,” he said. “For God’s sake, speak! I do not want to lose control of myself, but I cannot forget that you have been my wife.” These words, which moved him so that he shook visibly, made apparently no impression upon her. Her breathing was so scant and so light as scarcely to lift the lace upon her breast; and, near as he was to her, he could not hear it. Was she, perhaps, unconscious? He might have thought so, but for the deep, intense consciousness in the gaze that she fixed upon him, and the flutter of her long-lashed lids as she shut and opened them occasionally from the strain of that prolonged look.