As regarded that other, to whom she had bound herself, her conscience had long absolved her of an obligation that had been forced upon her. Had fate and fact not proved the thing impossible? Had fate not cast them again and again into each other's arms and made mock of their conscience? Nature had made them lovers, let it be the will of God or the devil. And lovers till death should they be henceforth. He belonged to her. Away with faith--away with fear of this world, or the next. Away with all but the dear present, in which the brutality of others had set her free. For a moment her thoughts turned almost pagan. Was she to return to the old, loveless life in that far corner of the earth, while he whom she loved took up a new existence in the centre of the world, loving another to whose ambition he might owe a great career? She needed indeed to sit in silence, she who had done daring things without a misgiving, as if impelled by a power not her own. She had done them, marvelling at her own courage, at her own faith in him she loved, and she had not faltered. The torturing dusk was drowning every living thing in pallid waves of shadow. One by one, through the wan gallery in which she was locked, the motley spectres of night would pass in all their horrors, and begin their crazy, soundless nods and becks. Suddenly she cowered back, shuddering, with her eyes fixed on the darkening depths of the gallery and her day dreams died, like pale ashes crumbling on the hearth. Roger de Laval had entered and was regarding her with a malignant leer that almost froze the blood in her veins. She knew not what business had taken him abroad. Nevertheless was assured that some dark deed was slumbering in the depths of his soul. "Are you thinking of your fine lover?" he said as he slowly advanced towards her. "You are grieved to have your thoughts broken into by your husband? No doubt you wish me dead--" "Spare me this torture, my lord," she entreated. "I have answered a thousand times--" "Then answer again--" "I swear before God and the Saints he is guiltless. He knew not I was in Rome." "Swear what you will! A woman's oath is but a wind upon one's cheek on a warm summer day--gone ere you have felt it. The oath of a woman who has followed her lover--" "I have not done so!" "You have done your best to make the world believe it." "What of yourself?" There was a ring of scorn in her voice. "You have brought me to shame!" "What of the women you have shared with me?" Hellayne's eyes met those of her tormentor. "It is a man's part!" "And you are a man!" "One at least shall have cause to think so." "Perchance you will have him murdered. Why not kill me, too? That, too, is a man's part." He gave a great roar. "And who says that I shall not?" An icy fear, not for herself, but for Tristan, gripped her heart. She tried to hide it under a mantle of indifference. "What have you ever done to make yourself beloved?"