“He shall have it.”
“Give it me now, now,” I cried, in eager joy.
“No; let him writhe a little longer—revenge should be eaten slowly—you must learn this—the blow that kills at once makes a gourmand of the avenger—he swallows all at a mouthful.”
There was something fiendish in the man’s look as he said this, that made me shudder as I faltered out, “You terrify me—I do not understand. Will you tell me of my mother?”
“I will give you the knowledge soon.”
“Oh, now, that it may bless his last moments,” I pleaded; “he may not live another hour.”
“That it may curse him,” shouted the man. “But that I am sure of it, he might die like a dog, in his ignorance. Not for all those lands which the secret shall bring you, child, would I speak, only I know how sweet my words will be to him,” he cried, pointing toward Greenhurst. “Choke back those tears, little one; it is time you were among us, full time.”
“But my mother—speak of her—you terrify me.”
“Yes, I forget,” he said, with a sudden change of manner, “there is gentile blood in your cheeks, and that is cowardly; but what I have to say will fire it up by and by, Zana,” he continued, with a touch of feeling, “you are like your mother!”
“I know it.”