The man was my husband. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. Lucy slipped upstairs silently. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved.
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