"If I find you plotting with your lover by the way I will hang
not you, but him. I have spared him a score of times; but I know him,
and I do not trust him."
"Nor me," she said, and with a white, set face she looked at him in the
moonlight. "Had you not better hang me now?"
"Why?"
"Lest I do you an injury!" she cried with passion; and she raised her
hand and pointed northward. "Lest I kill you some night, Monsieur! I
tell you, a thousand men on your heels are less dangerous than the woman
at your side--if she hate you."
"Is it so?" he cried. His hand flew to his hilt; his dagger flashed out.
But she did not move, did not flinch, only she set her teeth; and her
eyes, fascinated by the steel, grew wider.
His hand sank slowly. He held the weapon to her, hilt foremost; she took
it mechanically.
"You think yourself brave enough to kill me, do you?" he sneered. "Then
take this, and strike, if you dare. Take it--strike, Madame! It is
sharp, and my arms are open." And he flung them wide, standing within a
pace of her. "Here, above the collar-bone, is the surest for a weak
hand. What, afraid?" he continued, as, stiffly clutching the weapon
which he had put into her hand, she glared at him, trembling and
astonished. "Afraid, and a Vrillac! Afraid, and 'tis but one blow! See,
my arms are open.
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