herself to seek thee. My soul, my life, myself— all, all belong to thee, my captain. Well, so be it— we will not marry, since it is not thy wish. Besides, what am I but a miserable child of the gutter, while thou, my Phœbus, art a gentleman. A fine thing, truly! A dancing girl to espouse an officer! I was mad! No, Phœbus, I will be thy paramour, thy toy, thy pleasure— what thou wilt— only something that belongs to thee— for what else was I made? Soiled, despised, dishonoured, what care I? if only I be loved I shall be the proudest and happiest of women. And when I shall be old and ugly, when I am no longer worthy of your love, monseigneur, you will suffer me to serve you. Others will embroider scarfs for you— I, the handmaid, will have care of them. You will let me polish your spurs, brush your doublet, and rub the dust from off your riding-boots— will you not, Phœbus? You will grant me so much? And meanwhile, take me— I am thine— only love me! We gipsies, that is all we ask— love and the free air of heaven!”

Speaking thus, she threw her arms round the soldier’s neck and raised her eyes to his in fond entreaty, smiling through her tears. Her tender bosom was chafed by the woollen doublet and its rough embroidery as the fair, half-nude form clung to his breast. The captain, quite intoxicated, pressed his lips to those exquisite shoulders, and the girl, lying back in his arms, with half-closed eyes, glowed and trembled under his kisses.

Suddenly above the head of Phœbus she beheld another head— a livid, convulsed face with the look as of one of the damned, and beside that face a raised hand holding a dagger. It was the face and the hand of the priest. He had broken in the door and stood behind the pair. Phœbus could not see him. The girl lay motionless, petrified and speechless with terror at the appalling apparition, like a dove that raises her head and catches the terrible keen eye of the hawk fixed upon her nest.

She was unable even to cry out. She saw the dagger descend upon Phœbus and rise again, reeking.

“Malediction!” groaned the captain, and fell.

The girl swooned, but at the moment ere her eyes closed and she lost all consciousness, she seemed to feel a fiery pressure on her lips, a kiss more searing than the brand of the torturer.

When she came to her senses she found herself surrounded by the soldiers of the watch; the captain was being borne away bathed in his blood, the priest had vanished, the window at the back of the room overlooking the river was wide open; they picked up a cloak which they supposed to belong to the officer, and she heard them saying to one another:

“It is a witch who has stabbed a captain.”