Uncertain perfume, not too sweet—the flowers seemed very dearly hers somehow; she hugged them to her, though not close enough to hurt a single petal. As the bough swung back again, petals showered upon the grass below. And she flung herself down among them, pressing her soft finger-tips against the black earth. The breeze lifted a strand of hair at the nape of her neck and murmured questioningly close to her ear.
"Fayrian! Fayrian! You are here, all around me. What do you want of me?"
She almost thought she could feel the grass growing beneath her fingers. Fayrian had wanted to die a splendid death!
Hours later she came back to the house. The servant thought she had fallen, since there was mud on her dress and face. She must have fresh clothes and food. Poor Concetta who knew so little—she always thought of food when she was helpless to offer other comfort. She pattered about the kitchen with troubled steps. When she came in later to set plates on the table she tried to speak brightly. Ermengarde followed her with a heavy gaze.
"Lady Ermengarde, it's a sweet thing, God's sunshine—"
"It is?"
"There's something about a beautiful day like this that creeps over things and into a house like—like—"
"Like a—person, Concetta!"
Ermengarde spoke the words distinctly, looking straight at her. "A person—beautiful—dissatisfied."
Concetta's eyes fairly leapt. A knife clattered to the floor.
"Oh, my lady!"
She hurried from the room, crossing herself, and the busy patter of steps rang in the kitchen again.
"Fayrian—sunshine—I love you!"
Day followed day, and still the same enveloping presence with its piteous, insistent tugging, its desire for something. It was in the flame that leapt like a hungry question out of the fire. It was in the touch of water flowing over Ermengarde's hands. And always she wondered, and as she wondered her pallor heightened and her long fingers grew thinner and whiter. Could it be revenge that Fayrian wanted? What was the thing he asked for during this restless communion?
She would tell them what she had done, and they could hang her. It would not hurt now—perhaps it was what he wanted. So one morning she wrapped herself in a dark cloak and started through the gateway. As she passed, Fayrian's great hairy dog, chained to his kennel, snarled at her and showed his teeth. He knew! Soon others would know, too!
The magistrate to whom she went was very considerate. What was wrong? Could he do anything to help her? Clinging to his arm she whispered:
"Fayrian—his murder—it was I."
"What do you mean?"
His eyes were grave and kind. This time she answered aloud, trembling.
"I killed him. I put the poison in his cup—and he wanted to die a splendid death!"
A film came over the man's eyes, and he looked at her as one looks at a sick child.
"Poor lady, you have forgotten. Polevay killed him and Polevay is hanged. It is all over. Your grief has confused you."
"But he did not kill him. It was I who put the poison in the cup. Hang me; I should not mind the pain now."
She all but shook him. He caught her wrists firmly.
"You did not kill Fayrian; you
