"if i had loved you all these years," murmured the duc de puysange. his dull gaze wandered toward the admirable "herodias" of giorgione which hung there in the corridor: the strained face of the woman, the accented muscles of her arms, the purple, bellying cloak which spread behind her, the livid countenance of the dead man staring up from the salver,—all these he noted, idly. it seemed strange that he should be appraising a painting at this particular moment.

"well, now i will make recompense," said the duke.