A thrill, alike of horror and admiration, ran through him. He knew that it was the language of the novelette in which she spoke. Nevertheless her phrases so moved and touched him, that his brain began to whirl. She had come a step nearer to him, and stood confronting him with a face as white as a sheet, her breast heaving, and her lips trembling. "When I became his wife," she began, "when I lay in his arms the first time, I had convulsions of fear. I thought I saw _you_, Leo, standing by the bed, with cocked pistol pointed at my forehead. And this vision didn't leave me till I was alone. So you can imagine there has not been much joy in our union. He is as unhappy as I am. But his unhappiness seems to me bliss compared with the torments that I have had to endure--helpless, alone, like a fish out of water, struggling on the sand, and slowly expiring. Till then, Leo, I had preserved my love for you in my heart as something sacred. But after that it began to yield to a constant gnawing anxiety--fear of you--fear of him--fear of Johanna--fear of the whole world. Even when I was engaged, I had an attack of it. I thought that my letters to you----" "I know," he interrupted, "Johanna told me." She bowed her beautiful head with a gesture of pain. "Oh, now I see who it is has hounded you on to me," she whispered. "But she is right. I am every bit as bad, every bit as corrupt as her hate makes me out." He, on his side, interpreted all these passionate self-accusations into the one reproach, that his sister had prophesied--the reproach, "It is your fault." "Don't exaggerate," he said, trying at the same time to reassure himself. "It's not so bad as that." She gave a deep sigh of exhaustion, and leaned her head comfortably against the foot of the white figure of the youth that stood nearest her on the pedestal.