Victor took the flower and pressed it to his lips:
“It shall never leave me more! Vivienne, you have saved my life, not only once, but twice, at the risk of your own. I must—I will speak, now that we are about to part forever. I must tell you that the life you saved is henceforth worthless to me unless blest by your love. Oh, you could not have avoided seeing my struggle, even while it seemed most hopeless. My future happiness is in your keeping. A word from your lips will forever seal the fate of one who loves you with a devotion second only to that which we owe to God. Speak, Vivienne! But, remember, you hold my life and its dearest hopes in your keeping. One word will bid me live and hope, or blast forever the fondest dream of my life!”
Vivienne was unconventional. She lifted her luminous black eyes and looked straight into his. There was no time for idle sentiment. The happiness of two lives, the fate of one, hung upon her answer.
“If, indeed, it rests with me, then I bid you live and be happy, as I shall be.”
Vivienne extended her hand, which Victor took and held for one brief moment. It was with difficulty that he restrained the impulse to clasp her in his arms and kiss her sweet lips, which had so frankly confessed her love for him. But Victor had a chivalric nature and he knew that, considering the avowal that must be made, such an act would be ungenerous. Hard as it was to utter the words which would part them forever, he realised that they must be spoken. Victor flung her hand from him, and cried:
“You love me, rash girl! I see it in the soft tenderness of your eyes—I felt it in the fervent pressure of your hand. No, no, you must not! Speak but one kind word to me and you outrage every inherent principle of your race! Dare even to regard me with pity and you forfeit every right to your boasted name and lineage! Oh, I cannot—will not—deceive you, even to win your matchless heart. You shall know me as I am, and then I will die at your feet!”
He passed her the sword, the blade still reddened with the blood of Count Mont d’Oro. He sank upon his knees, threw his coat wide open, baring his chest for the expected blow, and cried:
“Strike, for I am Vandemar!”
Vivienne started back, gazing at him with horror-stricken eyes. She raised the sword as if to strike—then it fell from her hand, clanging loudly upon the stone. She staggered, and leaned for support against one of the mirrors, which reflected her shrinking form, her death-white face, and closed eyes. She had shut them tightly, for before her had risen the picture of Vandemar lying dead at her feet, she standing over him, the sword, dripping with his blood, in her hands.
Vandemar saw her distress and, arising, said: