Every syllable of this speech was uttered with that thrilling
distinctness which seems as if the depth of the heart spoke in the
voice. But Cesarini did not appear to understand its import. He seized
Maltravers by the arm, and looked in his face with a wild and menacing
glare.

"Did you tell me she was dying?" he said. "I ask you that question: why
do you not answer me? Oh, by the way, you threaten me with your
vengeance. Know you not that I long to meet you front to front, and to
the death? Did I not tell you so--did I not try to move your slow
blood--to insult you into a conflict in which I should have gloried?
Yet then you were marble."

"Because /my/ wrong I could forgive, and /hers/--there was then a hope
that hers might not need the atonement. Away!"

Maltravers shook the hold of the Italian from his arm, and passed on. A
wild, sharp yell of despair rang after him, and echoed in his ear as he
strode the long, dim, solitary stairs that led to the death-bed of
Florence Lascelles.

Maltravers entered the room adjoining that which contained the
sufferer--the same room, still gay and cheerful, in which had been his
first interview with Florence since their reconciliation.

Here he found the physician dozing in a /fauteuil/. Lady Florence had
fallen asleep during the last two or three hours. Lord Saxingham was in
his own apartment, deeply and noisily affected; for it was not thought
that Florence could survive the night.