CHAPTER XVIII. “She was the High Priestess who turned me in Greece, before Rome. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. No instrument I've ever used has done me such good service. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. "Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,—"Your son has committed a robbery—here—in these holy walls—he is mine—mine for ever!" She uttered a loud scream, and fainted. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. He was like a man beside himself.
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