I go nearer, and attempt to take his hand.
"'Duke, say it, say it!" I cry, feverishly.
"Do not touch me!" exclaims he, hoarsely, shrinking away from me.
I feel turned to stone—not faint or sick; only numbed, and unable to reason. The Italian bursts into a ringing laugh.
"What a situation!" cries she. "What a scene! It is a tragedy, and the peasant is the heroine. I—Carlotta—am the wife, while the white, delicate, proud miladi is only the mist—-"
Before the vile word can leave her lips, Marmaduke's hand is on her throat. His face is distorted with passion and madness: there is upon it a settled expression of determination that terrifies me more than all that has gone before. His thin nostrils are dilated with rage. His very lips are gray. Already the woman's features are growing discolored.
"Marmaduke!" I shriek, tearing at the hand that pinions her to the shutter, "Marmaduke, for my sake—remember—have pity. Oh, what is it you would do?"
By a superhuman effort my weak fingers succeed in dragging his hand away, He shivers, and falls back a step or two, while the Italian slowly recovers.
"Would you murder me?" she gasps. "Ah! wretch—dog—`beast! But I have a revenge!"
She stalks towards the door as she utters this threat, and quickly vanishes.