"I thought I did--to my undying shame.

No more than that, my lord--as I've a soul to be saved." "You loved Me," he insisted.

"And you would love me still but for this damned Caryll--this French coxcomb, who has crawled into your regard like the slimy, creeping thing he is." "It sorts well with your ways, my lord, that you could say these things behind his back.

You are practiced at stabbing men behind." The gibe, with all the hurtful, stinging quality that only truth possesses, struck his anger from him, leaving him limp and pale.

Then he recovered.
"Do you know who he is--what he is ?" he asked.