If she had never met her master in all her life before, she met him in the person of Count Karolyski. He was a stern tyrant and a jealous ruler. Once his wife, and once safe among the gloomy solitudes of his own possessions in the Carpathian range, there was neither peace nor liberty for the Lady Jean. Passionate, exacting, cruel, domineering, this man, who had for her an absorbing passion, but neither trust nor belief, resolved that she should never escape his keeping, let her chafe and fret as she would. When she heard of Sir Francis Vavasour's death she had congratulated herself on her prudent acceptance of this other man, more especially as she knew that his action had rid Lauraine of her lover, and poisoned all the freedom of her sudden release. But when in course of time she learnt of Keith's recovery, her rage and fury knew no bounds. Then, for the first time as yet in their married life, she gave her husband a specimen of her tigress temper; but then also for the first, though not the last time, did she learn that she had sold herself into a bondage from which there was no escape, and, galled, fretted, half broken-hearted, she found herself compelled to do his bidding, and accept her present fate. If Lauraine had been unhappy too, it would have sweetened the gall and wormwood of her own lot; but that her rival should now have peace and happiness, and she herself sink to a life that was as dreary as a captive's, was the crowning stab to her many wounds. And yet, burn in anger, chafe in humiliation as she might, there was no help for her and no possibility of escape. The violence of her tempestuous passions only seemed to amuse him. Tears and reproaches alike beat against the stony calm and immovability of his nature, as futile waves may lash a rock that has borne their fury for centuries. Do what she might, act as she pleased, one fact alone showed itself to her. She was a disappointed and helpless woman, and she was in the power of a master against whom it was useless to rebel. The long dreary days went by, empty as a rifled grave, cold with the chill of an endless despair. Such was her life; such would be her life for all the future now. Her soul might rebel as it would, and her heart grow sick within her as the sullen shadows of memory dogged her every footstep, but she was powerless to evade or resent. Her evil deeds had gained now their own reward--the vengeance she had planned for another had recoiled on her own head. And where are the two about whom so much gossip is rife, concerning whom so many tongues are wagging? Have the sundered lives been joined at last? Has fate done its worst, and, wearied of spite, grown callous now as to what may or may not ensue? Two days after Lauraine had left him, Sir Francis Vavasour died. His presentiment had been true, but his sacrifice had in some way softened the bitterness of death.