"By the sun, and the sky,
and the sea, and the earth, I swear that, as they continue unchanged and
unchanging, so shall my hate for you remain!" Darkness--a prison cell.
Year by year, year by year, darkness, solitude, misery! See the blade
hair turn gray, the strength of manhood wasting away, the eye growing
dim, the body weak. Year by year, year by year, it goes on. What was
that scratched upon the whitewashed walls? What was the cry which rang
back from the towering cliff! "Hate unchanging and unchanged!" The
same--ever the same.

"Leonardo, have you no word for me?"

He rose slowly from his chair, and fixed his eyes upon her.

Before their fire she shrank back, appalled. Was it a storm about to
burst upon her? No! The words were slow and few.

"You have dared to come--here; dared to come and look upon your
handiwork! Away! Out of my sight! You have seen me. Go!"

Tears blinded her eyes. The sight of him was horrible to her. She
forgot, in her great pity, that justice had been upon her side. She sank
upon her knees before him on the velvet pile carpet.

"Leonardo, for the love of God, forgive me!" she sobbed. "Oh! it is
painful to see you thus, and to know the burden of hate which you carry
in your heart. Forgive me! Forgive us both!"

He stooped down until his ghastly face nearly touched hers.

"Curse you!" he muttered hoarsely. "You dare to look at me, and ask for
forgiveness. Never! never! Every morning and night I curse you. I curse
you when my mother taught me to pray. I live for nothing else. If I had
the strength I would strangle you where you stand. Hell's curses and
mine ring in your ears and sit in your heart day by day and night by
night! Away with you! Away, away!"

She was a brave woman, but she fled from the room like a hunted animal,
and passed out of the hotel with never a look to the right or to the
left.

The manager came out to speak to her, but he stood still, aghast, and
let her go without uttering a word or offering to assist her. As long as
he lived he remembered the look on the Countess of St. Maurice's face as
she came down those stairs, clutching hold of the banisters, and, with
hasty trembling steps, left the hotel. He was a great reader of fiction,
and he had heard of Irish banshees and Brahmin ghosts; but never a
living story-teller had painted such a face as he looked upon at that
moment.

CHAPTER XV

THE COUNT'S SECOND VISITOR

Two days more passed without any ch