He seized her by the arm distractedly and sought to drag her away.

She turned her fixed gaze upon him. “What has become of Phœbus?”

“Ah,” said the priest, letting go her arm, “you have no mercy!”

“What has become of Phœbus?” she repeated stonily.

“Dead!” cried the priest.

“Dead?” said she, still icy and motionless; “then why talk to me of living?”

He was not listening to her.

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if speaking to himself, “he must be dead. The knife went deep. I think I reached his heart with the point. Oh, my soul was in that dagger to the very point!”

The girl threw herself upon him with the fury of a tigress, and thrust him towards the steps with supernatural strength.

“Begone, monster! Begone, assassin! Leave me to die! May the blood of both of us be an everlasting stain upon thy brow! Be thine, priest? Never! never! no power shall unite us— not hell itself! Begone, accursed— never!”

The priest stumbled against the steps. He silently disengaged his feet from the folds of his robe, took up his lantern, and began slowly to ascend the steps leading to the door. He opened the door and went out.

Suddenly she saw his head reappear. His face wore a frightful expression, and he cried with a voice hoarse with rage and despair:

“I tell thee he is dead!”

She fell on her face to the floor. No sound was now audible in the dungeon but the tinkle of the drop of water which ruffled the surface of the pool in the darkness.