She laughed softly. "You need not worry about him any more," she said, and Arnold detected a note of triumph in her voice. For a moment he wondered at it. Had she, then, disposed of Wenzel? A horrible, ghastly suspicion arose in his mind. "Mademoiselle, what do you mean?" His voice rose shrilly. Elizabeth looked at him strangely. There was something in his suddenly anxious expression, a look of absolute consternation, which frightened her. Even in the uncertain light of the flickering candle she saw his face pale and his eyes gleam wildly. "What do I mean?" she repeated vacantly, and then faltered. She felt terrified. Arnold's staring eyes--they seemed to hypnotize her. "Monsieur, I--I mean that--that the man with whom you saw me, the man who brought me here by trickery, is the man I have denounced to the Commune as the White Knight." Arnold could only stare and stare, his face conveying nothing but a blank look of inconceivable horror and dismay. His face was now chalky white, and in contrast to the pallor his eyes seemed abnormally large--accusing. What had she done? If he would only speak! "Oh, Mother in Heaven!" She could bear the anxiety no longer. "Monsieur Arnold, for Heaven's sake tell me what is the matter! Your look... I am afraid, my heart trembles...." He spoke in emotionless tones, his voice devoid of any feeling whatsoever: "Nothing, mademoiselle, nothing, except--the man you have just denounced into the hands of the Commune as the White Knight--he--he--he is none other than--the White Knight himself." There was a dead silence. Elizabeth did not speak, simply gazed at Arnold, then, without warning, dropped to the floor unconscious. And the Englishman laughed hysterically. CHAPTER XVIII Throughout the night Wenzel's head ached abominably from the blow it had received, but by the time morning arrived, and a grinning, jeering jailer brought him a meagre pittance of mouldy bread, together with a cup of water, the pain began to ease somewhat, and he was able to think more clearly. Purely in passing curiosity he wondered how many hours it would be before he died. Actually he cared neither how soon nor when that hour might be. The death for which he had sought after the passing of Zita and before the rebirth of love in his breast was to be his at last. The few minutes during which he learned from Elizabeth's own lips the entire depth of her treachery had more than sufficed to wash away the work of weeks. Once again he was the sullen automaton, hating creation, its Maker, and all who breathed and lived--even the unfortunate victims of the Commune for whose rescue he was in the main responsible. He did not think of Elizabeth. Having regained consciousness his earlier flash of temper died away and he forgave her, realizing that it was not the action itself which angered him, but the thought of what had been the real impulse which had urged her to such a course. The pitiable story was so easy to read.