“The sacrifice of your life can do no good to those who are already dead, Princess. It is only cowardly to feel this indifference.”
“I would rather be a coward and die than beg my life at the hands of these murderers. I will hear no more.”
She spoke with more animation than before: and so long as I could rouse her from the stupor of her grief and horror, I knew I was doing good. If she could be provoked to anger, so much the better. I cared not what I said.
“You cannot avoid hearing me, and I am resolved to speak,” I continued, deliberately. “And you owe it to me to listen carefully.”
The curl of her lip shewed that she thought this about as mean as it sounded. But she did not reply.
“You must have heard me, and if you are not a coward of another kind, you will reply.” I felt an awful brute as I said this; but it had its effect. She started up, clasping the arms of her chair and leaning forward, looked at me with amazement, anger and bitterness. But I went on doggedly: “Not your life only but mine also is in the balance, and I have the right to expect you to make an effort.”
“The right?” The words came like a flash of contempt.
“Yes, a double right,” I said, in the same stubborn tone, intending to anger her. “I saved your life in the Gravenje hills and I came here now to save you again.”
“My God, I did not think a man could be found to speak thus at such a time,” she cried. She was angry enough now even to forget for the moment her grief.
“You are angry because I remind you of this, and consequently do me the injustice of such a taunt.”