How could he when he was haunted night and day by the fear lest his wife should murder him?
Surely, if ever Death looked out of a woman's eyes it looked out of hers, and it seemed to him that such a deed might trouble her conscience little; that she might consider it in the light of an execution, and not as a murder.

Bah! he could not bear to think of it.

What would it be to drink his wine one day and then feel a hand of fire gripping at his vitals because poison had been set within the cup; or, worse still, if anything could be worse, to wake at night and find a stiletto point grating against his backbone?
Little wonder that Montalvo slept alone and was always careful to lock his door.
He need not have taken such precautions; whatever her eyes might say, Lysbeth had no intention of killing this man.

In that prayer of hers she had, as it were, placed the matter in the hand of a higher Power, and there she meant to leave it, feeling quite convinced that although vengeance might tarry it would fall at last.

As for her money, he could have it.