Oh!" she continued in a tone of bitter raillery, "he has the cunning of hell, of the priests! You are no match for him, Monsieur.

Nor I; nor any of us.

And"-- with a gesture of despair--"he will be my master! He will break me to his will and to his hand! I shall be his! His, body and soul, body and soul!" she continued drearily, as she sank into a chair and, rocking herself to and fro, covered her face.

"I shall be his! His till I die!" The man's eyes burned, and the pulse in his temples beat wildly.
"But you shall not!" he exclaimed.

"I may be no match for him in cunning, you say well.