“Von Behrling was not even allowed to cross the threshold,” he said sharply.
She moved her head and looked up at him. She was leaning a little forward now, her chin resting upon her hands. Something about the lines of her long, supple body suggested to him the savage animal crouching for a spring. She was quiet, but her bosom was heaving, and he could guess at the passion within. With purpose he spoke to set it loose.
“You sing to-night?” he asked.
“Before God, no!” she answered, the anger blazing out of her eyes, shaking in her voice. “I sing no more in this accursed city!”
“There will be a revolution,” Bellamy remarked. “I see that the whole city is placarded with notices. It is to be a gala night at the Opera. The royal party is to be present.”
Her body seemed to quiver like a tree shaken by the wind.
“What do I care—I—I—for their gala night! If I were like Samson, if I could pull down the pillars of their Opera House and bury them all in its ruins, I would do it!”
He took her hand and smoothed it in his.
“Dear Louise, it is useless, this. You do everything that can be done for your country.”
Her eyes were streaming and her fingers sought his.