from him, then he
struck viciously the white terrified face twice, leaving dull, red marks
to bear witness.

His rage fed upon the brutality. Now that he had let himself loose, he
gave full rein to his hate and revenge.

He gripped the slim, childish arm, and pushed the shrinking form before
him.

"Go--you!" With one hand he drew the door back, and hurled the girl out
into the black storm. "Go to _him_!"

Joyce kept her feet, but she staggered on until a tree stopped her
course. The contact was another hurt, but she gave small heed to it.

Like a burning flash she seemed to see two things: Jude's true
understanding of her blundering words; and her possible future, after
she had made him understand. For, of course, she must go back and _make_
him understand, and then--well, after such a scene, a woman's life was
never safe in St. Ange. It was like a taste of blood to a wild animal.
Still she must go back. In all the world there was nothing else for her
to do.

Her face stung and throbbed, her arm ached where Jude had crushed the
tender flesh. She leaned against the tree that had added to her pain,
and wept miserably for very self-pity. She was downed and beaten. After
all she was to be like the rest of St. Ange women.

Sounds roused her. Strange, terrific sounds.

What was Jude doing?

Trembling in every limb, she went forward and peered through the
rose-vine into the room.

The rain was cooling her face and the wind was clearing the agonized
brain.

Inside, the scene struck terror to the watcher's heart.

Jude was crashing the furniture to pieces in a frenzy of revenge.

The chairs were dashed against the chimney; the books hurled near and
far. One almost hit the white face among the vines, as it went crashing
outward.

Then Jude attacked the pictures--her beautiful pictures!

The mountain peak was shattered by a blow from the remnant of the little
rocker, then the ocean picture fell with the sound of splintered glass.
Last the Madonna! Joyce clutched her heart as the heavenly face was
obliterated by the savage blow. Then, maddened still further by his own
excesses, Jude laughed and struck with mighty force, the lamp from the
table--and the world was in blackness!

How long Joyce stood clinging to the vine in abject terror, she was
never to know.

Consciousness of the live, vivid sort, was mercifully spared her for a
space. She knew, but did not comprehend, the true horror of her
situation.

N