So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. To-night all London believes that he was your husband.
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