Part 51 (1/2)

”Don't be too sure of that,” he returned. ”It may be that you can deceive yourself more easily than you can deceive me. Or again, it may be that I have come to the end of my patience and have decided to take by storm what cannot be won by waiting.”

She drew herself up proudly. ”And you call that--love!” she said, with a scorn that she had never before turned against him. ”You dare to call that--love!”

”Call it what you will!” he flashed back. ”It is something that can crush your cold virtue into atoms, something that can turn you from a marble saint into a living woman of flesh and blood. For your sake I've tried--I've agonised--to reach your level. And I've failed because I can't breathe there. To-night you shall come down from your heights to mine. You who have never lived yet shall know life--as I know it--to-night!”

Fiercely he flung the words, and the breath of his pa.s.sion was like a fiery blast blown from the heart of a raging furnace. But still she did not shrink before him. Proud and calm she waited, bearing herself with a queenly courage that never faltered.

And it was as if she stood in a magic circle, for he raised no hand to touch her. Without word or movement she kept him at bay. Erect, unflinching, regal, she held her own.

He caught his breath as he faced her. The beast in him slunk back afraid, but the devil urged him forward. He came close to her, peering into her face, searching for that weak place in every woman's armour which the devil generally knows how to find. But still he did not offer to touch her. He had let her go out of his arms when he had believed her his own, and now he could not take her again.

”Anne,” he said suddenly, ”where is your love for me? I will swear you loved me once.”

”I never loved you,” she answered, her words clear-cut, cold as steel. ”I never loved you. Once, it is true, I fancied that you were such a man as I could have loved. But that pa.s.sed. I did not know you in those days. I know you now.”

”And hate me for what you know?” he said.

”No,” she answered. ”I do not even hate you.”

”What then?” he gibed. ”You are--sorry for me perhaps?”

”No!” Very distinct and steady came her reply. ”I only despise you now.”

”What?” he said.

”I despise you,” she repeated slowly, ”knowing what you might be, and knowing--what you are.”

The words pa.s.sed out in silence--a silence so tense that it seemed as if the world itself had stopped. Through it after many seconds came Nap's voice, so softly that it scarcely seemed to break it.

”It is not always wise to despise an enemy, Lady Carfax--especially if you chance to be in that enemy's power.”

She did not deign to answer; but her gaze did not flinch from his, nor did her pride waver.

He drew something abruptly from his pocket and held it up before her. ”Do you see this?”

She stirred then, ever so slightly, a movement wholly involuntary, instantly checked. ”Are you going to shoot me?” she asked.

”I thought that would make you speak,” he remarked. ”And you still despise me?”

Her breathing had quickened, but her answer was instant; for the first time it held a throb of anger. ”I despise you for a coward. You are even viler than I thought.”

He returned the weapon to his pocket. ”It is not for you,” he said. ”I am more primitive than that. It is for the man who stands between us, for the man who thought he could whip Nap Errol--and live. I have never gone unarmed since.”

He paused a moment, grimly regarding her. Then, ”There is only one thing I will take in exchange for that man's life,” he said.

”Only--one--thing!”

But she stood like a statue, uttering no word.