"Oh, fair, pure and spotless bride!" he cried; "well may they robe you in bridal white, hide your face with a bridal veil, crown you with orange blossoms! They will do well."
She made a step forward and would have taken the veil from his hands, but he would not release it.
"See," he cried, "how I serve your bridal veil! I would do the same to your heart, and his, if I could."
His face was transformed with rage, his eyes flashed fire, sudden fury leaped from his heart to his lips, sudden murder sprung like a flame of fire that seemed to scorch him.
He tore the beautiful veil into shreds, he trampled it under foot, he stamped on it in the violence of his rage and anger.
"So I would serve you!" he cried; "so I would serve him if I could!"
She drew back as his violence increased; not frightened—she was physically too brave for that; but wondering where it would lead him to, what he would do or say next.
"You are the falsest woman under heaven!" he cried. "You ought not to live; you are a mortal enemy of man!"
A weaker or more cowardly woman would have taken alarm and have cried out for help; but she did not know fear. If she had but given the least alarm, there were brave hearts near who would have shed their last drop of blood in her defense, who would have died over and over again for her; but she stood still, with a calm, sorrowful smile on her face.
"So much for your veil!" he cried, with a mocking sneer. "Now for the wreath!"