If stricken idiotic, he was a gentleman; the tigress she had detected in
her composition did not require to be called forth; half-a-dozen words,
direct, sharp as fangs and teeth, with the eyes burning over them,
sufficed for the work of defence. 'The man who swore loyalty to Emma!'
Her reproachful repulsion of eyes was unmistakeable, withering; as
masterful as a superior force on his muscles.--What thing had he been
taking her for?--She asked it within: and he of himself, in a reflective
gasp. Those eyes of hers appeared as in a cloud, with the wrath above:
she had: the look of a Goddess in anger. He stammered, pleaded across
her flying shoulder--Oh! horrible, loathsome, pitiable to hear! . . .
'A momentary aberration . . . her beauty . . . he deserved to be
shot! . . . could not help admiring . . . quite lost his head . .
on his honour! never again !'

Once in the roadway, and Copsley visible, she checked her arrowy pace for
breath, and almost commiserated the dejected wretch in her thankfulness
to him for silence. Nothing exonerated him, but at least he had the
grace not to beg secresy. That would have been an intolerable whine of a
poltroon, adding to her humiliation. He abstained; he stood at her mercy
without appealing.

She was not the woman to take poor vengeance. But, Oh! she was
profoundly humiliated, shamed through and through. The question, was I
guilty of any lightness--anything to bring this on me? would not be laid.
And how she pitied her friend! This house, her heart's home, was now a
wreck to her: nay, worse, a hostile citadel. The burden of the task of
meeting Emma with an open face, crushed her like very guilt. Yet she
succeeded. After an hour in her bedchamber she managed to lock up her
heart and summon the sprite of acting to her tongue and features: which