"Misfortune!" she wailed, her eyes flashing. "Would you not call the loss of the man you love, misfortune?" Then, in quieter tones, she added with a sigh, "Ah, you don't know, Geoffrey, how intensely bitter my strange, adventurous life has been. You believe, no doubt, that a woman of my character cannot love. Well, I thought so once. But I tell you that in London I loved one man; the only man I ever met that I could marry. I had renounced my past, and sought to lead a new life when I knew that he cared for me, and was preparing to make me his wife. But she, the Grand Duchess who tricked you so cleverly, came between us, and we were parted. Then I came here, to Russia, sought solace among my former companions, the scum of the gaols and ghettos, and have now descended in despair to what I am. By her, the woman you ask me to free from a terrible thraldom, I have been thrust back into hopelessness, and have lost for ever the one chance I had of joy and love." Then, covering her handsome face with her hands, she burst into a torrent of tears. "Come," I said, rising, and stroking her soft, silky hair. Her arms were upon the table, and she had buried her head in them, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Come, do not give way," I urged. "Who was the man you loved?" "That concerns no one but myself," she murmured. "Even she has never had proof that we loved one another. Yet to her is due all this grief, that has fallen upon me." Raising her head, she strove to suppress her emotion, and her brilliant tear-bedewed eyes fixed themselves steadily upon mine. "I may perhaps be able to assist you," I said. "I did on a former occasion." "No," she answered, in a voice of intense sorrow. "I have now grown careless of myself, careless of life, careless of everything since I left London. With the man I loved so truly I could have been happy always, yet she knew my past, and would allow me no chance to redeem myself. It is but what I deserve, I suppose, therefore I must suffer. But can you wonder that, hating the world as I do, I entertain a certain grim satisfaction in being leader of this ragged, ruffianly band of frontier free-lances?" "No," I answered, echoing her sigh; "I am scarcely surprised, yet I cannot think that my wife, who was your friend, would willingly serve you as you believe." "She did," Sonia answered, again raising her sad, dark eyes. "She alone I have to thank for the sorrow that has wrecked my life." "What was the name of the man you loved?" I asked. "Do I know him?" "Yes, you know him; but his name is of no consequence," she answered evasively, in a faint voice, lowering her eyes. "My secret is best kept in my own heart." "If my wife did it unintentionally, without knowing you were lovers, there is some excuse," I said, half apologetically. "No," she answered, with sudden harshness. "No excuse is possible. There were other circumstances which rendered her conduct unpardonable."