e
to you here in Florence--that brought us both here to this one place,
and threw us again into one another's society? When I left you at
Marseilles I thought that I had lost you forever!"

The lady said nothing.

But Hilda had already learned this much--first, that both were
English. The lady, even in her whisper, showed this. Again, she
learned that they had met before, and had enjoyed one another's
society in this way. Where? At Marseilles. Her vivid imagination at
once brought before her a way in which this might have been done. She
was traveling with her husband, and Lord Chetwynde had met her.
Probably they had sailed in the same steamer. Possibly they had come
all the way from India together. This now became her conviction.

"Have you forgotten Marseilles?" continued Lord Chetwynde. "Do you
remember our last sail? do you remember our last ride?"

"Yes," sighed the lady.

"And do you remember what I said?"

"I have not forgotten."

There was a long silence.

"This can not last much longer," said Lord Chetwynde. "I must go to
India."

He stopped.

The lady's head sank forward. Hilda could see this through the
shadows of the foliage.

"It can not last much longer," said Lord Chetwynde, in a louder
voice, and a groan escaped him as he spoke. "I must leave you; I must
leave you forever!"

He paused, and folding his arms, leaned back, while Hilda saw that
his frame was shaken with extraordinary excitement. At length he
leaned forward again. He caught her hand and held it. The lady sat
motionless, nor did she attempt to withdraw her hand. They sat in
perfect silence for a long time, but the deep breathing of each,
which seemed like long-drawn sighs, was audible to Hilda, as she
listened there; and it told how strong was the emotion within them.
But the one who listened was the prey of an emotion as mighty as
theirs.

Neither of these three was conscious of time. Wrapped up in their own
feelings, they were overwhelmed by a tide of passion that made them
oblivious of all things else. There were the lovers, and there was
the vigilant watcher; but which of these three was a prey to the
strongest emotion it would be difficult to tell. On the one side was
the mighty power of love; on the other the dread force of hate.
Tenderness dwelt here; vengeance waited there. Close together were
these three, but while Hilda heard even the very breathing of the
lovers, they were unconscious of her presence, and heard n