marry a man who glares at me like that? Positively you look as ferocious as
the blackamoor in the tragedy,--the fellow who smothered his wife because
she misplaced a handkerchief, you remember."

Lord Rokesle had risen, and he paced the hall, as if fighting down
resentment. "I am no Othello," he said at last; "though, indeed, I think
that the love I bear you is of a sort which rarely stirs our English blood.
'Tis not for nothing I am half-Spaniard, I warn you, Anastasia, my love is
a consuming blaze that will not pause for considerations of policy nor even
of honor. And you madden me, Anastasia! To-day you hear my protestations
with sighs and glances and faint denials; to-morrow you have only taunts
for me. Sometimes, I think, 'tis hatred rather than love I bear you.
Sometimes--" He clutched at his breast with a wild gesture. "I burn!" he
said. "Woman, give me back a human heart in place of this flame you have
kindled here, or I shall go mad! Last night I dreamed of hell, and of souls
toasted on burning forks and fed with sops of bale-fire,--and you were
there, Anastasia, where the flames leaped and curled like red-blazoned
snakes about the poor damned. And I, too, was there. And through eternity I
heard you cry to God in vain, O dear, wonderful, golden-haired woman! and
we could see Him, somehow,--see Him, a great way off, with straight, white
brows that frowned upon you pitilessly. And I was glad. For I knew then
that I hated you. And even now, when I think I must go mad for love of you,
I yet hate you with a fervor that shakes and thrills in every fibre of
me. Oh, I burn, I burn!" he cried, with the same frantic clutching at his
breast.

Lady Allonby had risen.

"Positively, I must ask you to open a window if you intend to continue in
this strain. D'ye mean to suffocate me, my Lord, with your flames and your