“Why will you not be my wife?” asked the Count doggedly, rising from his knees.
“Because I do not love you.”
“Not love me!”
“No, my sultan. Do you think I am a woman to fall at your feet when you thus throw the handkerchief?”
Caliphronas, who had suppressed his rage with difficulty, now burst out in a passion of furious anger, hardly knowing what he was saying.
“I know the reason you refuse me. Yes, you do well to turn away your head. You love this cursed Englishman. Ah, you cannot deny it! you are afraid to look me in the face.”
“I am not afraid—there!”
She faced him boldly, and the Greek, maddened beyond control, seized her by the wrist with a grasp like iron, yet she neither winced nor cried.
“Is it thus a woman should proffer her love?” hissed Caliphronas, white with passion; “this Englishman loves you not, and yet you throw yourself at his feet.”
“I do not. Let go my hand!” she cried, wincing with pain, yet keeping a bold front, upon which he flung her from him with a furious oath.