“Bah!” she cried contemptuously, and with her voice resuming its former tone. “Go, monsieur; dwell upon and love your picture when I am gone.”
“No; I love you, the living, breathing embodiment. Now, if I die for it, I will see your face.”
He stretched out one hand, and touched her veil, but it was tightly knotted behind her head, and with her left hand she caught his fingers and held them firmly, their warm contact sending a thrill through every nerve.
At the same moment, he felt the point of the knife touch his breast, but he did not shrink, only struggled to free his hand.
Then, as if moved by the same impulse, they remained motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes, and he felt her warm breath upon his lips.
“Then you do love me?” she whispered in a voice that, in its soft passionate tones, made every fibre vibrate in strange music to the melody of her utterance.
“More than life,” he whispered back. “You see.”
A low mocking laugh came from her lips as she loosened her grasp, flung up her hands, and the knife fell far away upon the floor. Then, with a sudden movement, as he seized her waist and drew her to him, she threw herself back, snatched off the veil, flung it upon the dais, and clasped her arms about his neck.
“Valentina!—You!”