‘What unwarrantable feelings?’ said Caterina, letting her hands fall, and fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher.  ’It is quite unnecessary for me to say more.  You must be conscious what I mean.  Only summon a sense of duty to your aid.  You are paining Captain Wybrow extremely by your want of self-control.’

‘Did he tell you I pained him?’

’Yes, indeed, he did.  He is very much hurt that you should behave to me as if you had a sort of enmity towards me.  He would like you to make a friend of me.  I assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are sorry you should cherish such feelings.’

‘He is very good,’ said Caterina, bitterly.  ’What feelings did he say I cherished?’

This bitter tone increased Miss Assher’s irritation.  There was still a lurking suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself, that Captain Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct and feelings towards Caterina.  It was this suspicion, more even than the anger of the moment, which urged her to say something that would test the truth of his statement.  That she would be humiliating Caterina at the same time, was only an additional temptation.

’These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti.  I cannot even understand how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never given her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the case.’

‘He told you that, did he?’ said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips turning white as she rose from her chair.

’Yes, indeed, he did.  He was bound to tell it me after your strange behaviour.’

Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room.

See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages and up the gallery stairs!  Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that swift silent tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce purpose, rather than a woman.  The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in the gallery, making mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of polished breast-plates.  Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery.  There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows it well.  And as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket.  In three minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery.  She threads the windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet.  Her hand is in her pocket, clenching the handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of its sheath.

She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacing boughs.  Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom—­as if every next leap must be its last.  Wait, wait, O heart!—­till she has done this one deed.  He will be there—­he will be before her in a moment.  He will come towards her with that false smile, thinking she does not know his baseness—­she will plunge that dagger into his heart.