“I will marry you, in spite of your refusal.”
“Never! I will die rather than be your wife.”
The young man tried to speak, but, choking with passion, could say nothing, so, stamping with impotent fury, he rushed to the principal entrance of the court and tore aside the curtains.
“You have refused to marry me,” he cried in a strangled voice. “I accept your refusal, but you will be mine soon. I will storm the island, I will drag you in chains away, and when I tire of you then will I sell you as a slave to the Turk!”
He dashed out of the court with a scream of rage, leaving Helena standing white as a marble statue, with her hands across her breast, which was heaving tempestuously with rage at the Greek’s insolence. If she had, girl as she was, refused the offer of Caliphronas in a somewhat undignified manner, she was now every inch a woman, who, not knowing the meaning of the word “fear,” was fiercely angered at the insult to her womanly pride. The soft, graceful girl had disappeared, and in her place stood Clytemnestra, fearlessly daring the dagger of Orestes. Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm.
“Father!”
“I know what has occurred. You are worn out with excitement, so go at once to bed.”
“But Andros”—
“I will deal with him.”
“You know I refused him.”