“Yes! Who and what are you?” She smiled sadly. “A broken-hearted woman who loves you!” “Empty words! You say you love me. The only proof of this confession I ask for is that you be sincere with me.” Hiding her face in her hands, she exclaimed— “Never! You would hate me if I told you!” “Then it is true that you are the most abominable creature on earth?” “Oh! my darling, do not insult me!” “You will not speak? Then I will ask your accomplices downstairs. I imagine it will be a pleasure to them to give me information about you.” He started towards the door. She leapt forward. “Madman! You do not know the danger you are running! Stay here by my side.” He looked steadily into her eyes, and asked again—“Who are you?” She groaned. “Why are you so pitiless?” “If you do not speak, it is because you are well aware that my scorn for you would be so great, that nothing but disgust would remain in my memory from this past happiness!” She stood up, and proudly answered— “Poor Marcel, you are mistaken—you would still love me. If I pleased, nothing could withdraw you from me!” She looked at him as she spoke, and under the influence of her glance Marcel felt all his resolutions melt away, a feeling of languor came over him, and he lost the faculty of will-power. “Death is all around us,” she whispered. “Let us forget everything. Do not think any more, my love—leave your poor tortured heart in peace.” Suddenly a sound of footsteps was heard throughout the house, and cries coming from outside. Then came a sound as though a door had been torn from its hinges, followed by a revolver-shot. At the same time was heard a voice, which Marcel knew well. “Help! Baudoin, help!” Then another shot, followed by a volley of oaths. Marcel, on his feet, exclaimed— “It is my uncle Graff! _Mon Dieu_! They are killing him!” “Stay here, do not stir!” said Sophia, in beseeching tones. He made no reply, but rushed forward into the corridor, found the staircase, and, in the semi-darkness, saw in the hall, on the ground floor, a group of three men, in a hand-to-hand conflict with Graff, who, half-stifled, and encircled by their arms, was trying in vain to make use of his revolver. In front of the entrance-door Hans and Baudoin were engaged in a fierce struggle. The brave servant had his forehead gashed open, and the blood was flowing freely, but he had obtained a firm hold on his terrible opponent, and succeeded in holding him harmless for the moment.