had deceived him, and there was no challenging it.
It did not even allow of jealousy; for jealousy is bred by doubt—and not by knowledge
But, somehow, it seemed vital to him that he should know the name of this dead man.
So he stooped down and looked; and then he gave a cry; one of those long-drawn, quivering cries in which the soul tries to burst the bonds of the tortured mind and to find refuge in the madness of forgetting.
His wife had been right. She had said that Corsica would lie for her and kill for her and be silent for her.
Here was the proof.
For the soil of Corsica had crushed the face of his wife s lover into unrecognizable pulp.
Yes—Corsica had won—in life it had stolen the love of his wife, and in death it still shielded the dishonoring secret; and slowly, like a man in a dream, the marquis walked away from the ruin, back through the streets of the crumbling village.
He stopped every man with the same, flat, trembling question:
"Monsieur, did you by any chance recognize the
