"Does life then seem so bitter now that the woman you love has proved a wanton and a coward?" she retorted vehemently. He looked at her, a little puzzled by her tone, then said quietly-- "Nay! the woman I loved has proved neither a wanton nor a coward . . . only an illusion, a sweet dream of youth and innocence, which I, poor fool, mistook for reality." There was such an infinity of sadness, of deception, and of life-enduring sorrow in his voice as he spoke that every motherly instinct, never far absent from a true woman's heart, was aroused in hers in an instant. She forgot her bitterness in the intensity of her desire to comfort him, and she said quite gently-- "You loved her very dearly, then?" "I worshipped my dream, but 'tis gone." "Already?" she asked, not understanding. And he, not comprehending, replied-- "Nothing flies so quickly as an illusion when it is on the wing." Then he added more lightly-- "But I pray you, do not think of that. I am grateful to you--very grateful. Your ladyship hath deigned to send for me. What do you desire of me? My name and protection are now at your service, and I am ready--whenever you wish it--to fulfil the promise our fathers made on our behalf." She drew back as if a poisoned adder had stung her. At first she had not realized what he meant to say; then the intention dawned upon her and the insult nearly knocked her down like a blow. She could hardly speak, her own words seemed to choke her; her rich young blood flew to her pallid cheeks and dyed them with the crimson hue of shame. "You would . . . ?" she murmured faintly. "You thought that I . . . ? Oh! . . ." she gasped in the infinity of her pain. But like the wounded beast when first it sees its own hurt, so did this man now--gentle, artistic, fastidious though he was--suddenly feel every cruel instinct of the primitive savage rise within him at the thought of the great wrong which he believed this woman had done him. All the latent tenderness in his heart was crushed. Manlike, he only longed now to make her suffer one tithe of the agony which he had endured because of her treachery. He thought that she had played with him and fooled him in sheer wantonness, and he wished to crush her pride, her youth, her gaiety as she had broken his life and his honour. He despised her for what she had done, and longed to let her see the full measure of his contempt. Glad that he had succeeded in hurting her, he tried to turn the blade within the wound. "Nay, you need have no fear, lady," he said, "the wars in France will soon claim my presence, and the world will be quite ready to forgive to the Duchess of Wessex the sins of Lady Ursula Glynde, especially after a chance French arrow had made her free again."