with a fear more acute than his previous violence had done. He rose,
and muttering to himself, walked to and fro, as if insensible of her
presence--in fact he was so. At length he stopped short, and fixing his
eyes upon Lady Florence, said in a whispered and thrilling tone:

"Now, then, the name of our undoer?"

"No, Ernest, no--never, unless you promise me to forego the purpose
which I read in your eyes. He has confessed--he is penitent--I have
forgiven him--you will do so too!"

"His name!" repeated Maltravers, and his face, before very flushed, was
unnaturally pale.

"Forgive him--promise me."

"His name, I say,--his name?"

"Is this kind?--you terrify me--you will kill me!" faltered out
Florence, and she sank on the sofa exhausted: her nerves, now so
weakened, were perfectly unstrung by his vehemence, and she wrung her
hands and wept piteously.

"You will not tell me his name?" said Maltravers, softly. "Be it so. I
will ask no more. I can discover it myself. Fate the Avenger will
reveal it."

At the thought he grew more composed; and as Florence wept on, the
unnatural concentration and fierceness of his mind again gave way, and,
seating himself beside her, he uttered all that could soothe, and