“Aye, you shall be killed if you do not confess,” said Philip. “Die on the instant, for heaven hath doomed you and I strike at its bidding.”
The convulsively young man convulsively picked up his sword, and applied the point like lightning to his sister’s breast.
“Yes, kill me!” she screamed, without shrinking at the smart of the wound.
She was even springing forward, full of sorrow and dementia, and her leap was so quick that the sword would have run through her bosom but for the sudden terror of Philip and the sight of a few drops of red on her muslin at the neck making him draw back.
At the end of his strength and his anger, he dropped the blade and fell on his knees at her feet. He wound his arms round her.
“No, Andrea,” he cried, “it is I who shall die. You love me no more and I care for nothing in the world. Oh, you love another to such a degree that you prefer death to a confession poured out on my bosom. Oh, Andrea, it is time that I was dead.”
She seized him as he would have dashed away, and wildly embraced him and covered him with tears and kisses.
“No, Philip, you are right. I ought to die since I am called guilty. But you are so good, pure and noble, that nobody will ever defame you and you should live to sorrow for me, not curse me.”
“Well, sister,” replied the young man, “in heaven’s name, for the sake of our old time’s love, fear nothing for yourself or him you love. I require no more of you, not even his name. Enough that the man pleased you, and so he is dear to me.
“Let us quit France. I hear that the King gave you some jewels—let us sell them and get away together. We will send half to our father and hide with the other. I will be all to you and you all to me. I love no one, so that I can be devoted to you. Andrea, you see what I do for you; you see you may rely on my love. Come, do you still refuse me your trust? will you not call me your brother?”