MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
Even in the darkness the nature of the apartment was easily discoverable by sense of touch. It was small, apparently the sleeping-quarters of some servant, containing a cot bed, a small table, with only a pincushion on it, a washstand, and two ordinary chairs. From feeling I judged the carpet on the floor to be a rag one, while a heavy curtain, drawn down, concealed the single window. The walls were solid and unbroken, two pictures and a small mirror being their only ornaments. The door was immovable, and of hardwood, against which a knife blade made little impression. As I investigated these details, groping about in the darkness, my mind was busy analyzing the situation. For the third time since entering this house I found myself a prisoner, twice through the wit and nerve of this woman. And she, unknowing it, was my wife. Could there be a stranger position possible; would fiction ever dare to invent so odd, so seemingly impossible a situation? I could scarcely believe it myself, yet might not divorce my mind from her, every nerve a-tingle with the memory of how attractive she appeared even as she stood there holding us helpless under her aim. What a magnificent creature she was, womanly even in that moment of trial, devoted, loyal, ready to sacrifice herself for her cause! Here was surely a heart to love and trust. I made no attempt to deceive myself. Except for those legal bonds, by which we were fraudulently bound together, I was nothing to her—not even a friend. She had been kind, it was true, and had expressed her confidence in me, but her heart had been given elsewhere. For the sake of her lover, as well as
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