on her knees, and then dropped at her lover's feet. The latter leaped
from the divan with out trying to assist her, stepped over the body
stretched before him, and drew his poniard out of his pocket.

Christian stood upon the threshold of the door silent and motionless.

There was a moment of terrible silence. Only the eyes of the two men
spoke; those of the husband were fixed, dull, and implacable; those of
the lover sparkled with the audacity of despair. After a moment of
mutual fascination, the Baron made a movement as if to enter.

"One step more and you are a dead man!" exclaimed Gerfaut, in a low
voice, as he clutched the handle of his poniard.

Christian extended his hand, replying to this threat only by a look; but
such an imperative one that the thrust of a lance would not have been as
fearful to the lover. Octave put his poniard in its sheath, ashamed of
his emotion in the presence of such calm, and imitated his enemy's
scornful attitude.

"Come, Monsieur," said the latter, in a low voice, as he took a step
backward.

Instead of following his example, Gerfaut cast a glance upon Clemence.
She had fallen in such a dead faint that he sought in vain for her
breath. He leaned over her, with an irresistible feeling of pity and
love; but just as he was about to take her in his arms and place her upon
the divan, Bergenheim's hand stopped him. If there is a being on earth
to whom one owes regard and respect, it is the one whom our own wrong has
rendered our enemy. Octave arose, and said, in a grave, resigned voice: