"Is she sorry for you, too? She should be--you love her so much."
"Yes--she is sorry for me. She has just said so." He raised his clenched
hand to his mouth almost before the words were uttered. Beatrice did not
see the few bright red drops that fell upon the rock as he gnawed the
flesh.
"Just said so?" she said, repeating his words. "I do not understand? Is
she here to-night?"
He did not answer, but slowly bent his head, as though in assent. An odd
foreboding of danger shot through the young girl's heart. Little as the
man said, he seemed desperate. It was possible that the girl he loved
might be a Capriote, and that he might have met her and talked with her
while the dinner was going on. He might have strangled her with those
great hands of his. She would not have uttered a cry, and no one would
be the wiser, for Tragara is a lonely place, by day and night.
"She is here, you say?" Beatrice asked again. "Where is she? Ruggiero,
what is the matter? Have you done her any harm? Have you hurt her? Have
you killed her?"
"Not yet---"
"Not yet!" Beatrice cried, in a low horror-struck tone. She had heard
his sharp, agonised breathing as he reeled unsteadily against the rock
behind him.
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