way.

She tried to dismiss these thoughts. What was she to do? She knew
not. And now as she thought there came back to her the remembrance of
Lord Chetwynde's words, and the utterance of his hate. This
recollection rose up above the remembrance of her terrors, and gave
her something else for thought. What should she do? Should she give
up her purpose and return to England? This seemed to her intolerable.
Chetwynde Castle had no attractions; and even if she were now assured
beyond all doubt that she should be for all the rest of her life the
acknowledged mistress of Chetwynde--even if the coronet were fixed on
her brow beyond the chance of removal--even if the court and the
aristocracy of England were eager to receive her into their
midst--yet even then she found in these things nothing which could
alleviate her grief, and nothing which could afford any attraction.
Her life was now penetrated with one idea, and that idea was all set
upon Lord Chetwynde. If he was lost to her, then there was only one
of two alternatives--death to herself, or vengeance. Could she die?
Not yet. From that she turned, not in fear, but rather from a feeling
that something yet remained to be done. And now, out of all her
thoughts and feelings, the idea of vengeance rose up fiercely and
irresistibly. It returned with something of that vehemence which had
marked its presence on the previous night, when she rushed forth to
satisfy it, but was so fearfully arrested. But how could she now act?
She felt as though the effort after vengeance would draw her once
more to confront the thing of horror which she had already met with.
Could she face it again?

Amidst all these thoughts there came to her the memory of Gualtier.
He was yet faithful, she believed, and ready to act for her in any
way, even if it required the sacrifice of his own life. To him she
could now turn. He could now do what she could not. If she had him
once more to act as her right hand, she might use him as a means for
observation and for vengeance. She felt now most keenly her own
weakness, and longed with a weary sense of desolation for some one
who might assist her, and do this work which lay before her.

At last she rose to go. The warmth of the sun had restored something
of her strength. The new resolutions which she had formed had given
energy to her soul. She wandered about through the wood, and at
length reached a stonewall. It looked like the boundary of the villa.
She fol