Still he searched her young innocence with that frowning stare. At length, stirring, and setting his lips grimly, he made to close the colloquy:
“All folly and madness, as you must know. The step is taken; it is irrevocable; and you must reconcile yourself to the position imposed upon you.”
“Imposed—imposed!” She wrung her pretty hands, and, writhing, pressed them to her mouth. “O, that is it—no choice for me—to give myself away from all I love!”
She ran and threw herself at the duke’s feet, and caught at his hands, and wept to him:
“In mercy, father, do not make me do this thing!”
He sought to free himself from her; in his fury he even dragged her as she knelt, so that she almost fell before him.
“I think you are mad,” he said.
“Yes, mad,” she answered—“I am mad. You must not wed a mad woman to an emperor’s son.”
He was frightened a little over the vehemence of her despair. Whatever was to account for it, it was not to be laid, it seemed, by coercion. He must try other means, a different appeal. If a startled suspicion had risen in his heart, he must not betray it; his pride, indeed, prevented him. He passed a hand across his forehead, and forced himself to address her in calmer tones.
“Come,” he said; “control yourself, and try to be reasonable. Why, consider, my little Isabelita, what it is you ask of me—how utterly wild and impossible. You have not been ignorant of our plans for you, or of the steps by which they have reached at last this triumphant consummation. And all this time you have shown no sign of revolt, of anything but a tacit conforming to our wishes. What has suddenly changed you?” His face darkened in spite of himself.