“That time may come soon,” she replied. She was thinking of Vandemar in the dark dungeon behind her. Then she wondered if the mirrors had been closed. If not, Pascal would see the picture and discover her secret. She could not resist the impulse to turn and look at the dungeon door.
Pascal had waited for her to say more. When she did not, he cried:
“This is but a weak attempt at evasion. You have become an adept in trickery and deception. Now, hear me, Vivienne, and be warned in time. I shall ask you but once more—where is Vandemar?”
Vivienne realised that her entreaties, no matter how strong or how persistent they might be, would have no effect upon her brother, who was animated by the spirit of his race—the spirit of the vendetta—which demands a victim, a sacrifice, an atonement. In her veins flowed the blood of the Batistellis. Now that Vandemar was beyond their reach, she became strong, self-reliant, courageous.
“Find him, if you think I have hidden him! You have the keys of the castle, and see,” pointing to the men, sneeringly, “your friends are here to help you; and when you have found him, let your band of Death Brothers chant his dirge.”
Pascal advanced towards her, his sword raised in a threatening manner.
“I will have no more of this insolence,” he cried. “You shall answer, or I will strike you down!”
His anger was so intense that he might have carried his threat into execution if his followers had not interposed.
“No, no!” cried one, grasping his arm. “Bethink you, sir. Bethink you, sir, she is a defenceless woman. You must not strike.”
Then a chorus of voices arose: “She is your sister. You must not strike.”