himself on the Italian;--he tore him from his footing--he grasped him in
his arms as a child--he literally whirled him around and on high; and in
that maddening paroxysm, it was, perhaps, but the balance of a feather,
in the conflicting elements of revenge and reason, which withheld
Maltravers from hurling the criminal from the fearful height on which
they stood. The temptation passed--Cesarini leaned safe, unharmed, but
half senseless with mingled rage and fear, against the wall.

He was alone--Maltravers had left him--had fled from himself--fled into
the chamber--fled for refuge from human passions to the wing of the
All-Seeing and All-Present. "Father," he groaned, sinking on his knees,
"support me, save me: without Thee I am lost."

Slowly Cesarini recovered himself, and re-entered the apartment. A
string in his brain was already loosened, and, sullen and ferocious, he
returned again to goad the lion that had spared him. Maltravers had
already risen from his brief prayer. With locked and rigid countenance,
with arms folded on his breast, he stood confronting the Italian, who
advanced towards him with a menacing brow and arm, but halted
involuntarily at the sight of that commanding aspect.

"Well, then," said Maltravers at last, with a tone preternaturally calm
and low, "you then are the man. Speak on--what arts did you employ?"

"Your own letter. When, many months ago, I wrote to tell you of the
hopes it was mine to conceive, and to ask your opinion of her I loved,
how did you answer me? With doubts, with depreciation, with covert and
polished scorn, of the very woman whom, with a deliberate treachery, you
afterwards wrested from my worshipping and adoring love. That letter I
garbled. I made the doubts you expressed of my happiness seem doubts of