“What do you mean?”
“Merely that engagements of marriage are contracts, and not to be treated so lightly as you and your—friend seem to think. I hold you to your promise.”
“In the chapel you said——”
“Oh, yes,” he broke in, with a shrug. “I accepted the situation, but it was only pretence. I did not feel called upon to discuss the subject then and there. The fact is, Donna Hera, the marriage must take place to-morrow, just as it has been arranged.”
“No, no!” she exclaimed, a note of entreaty in her voice. “You must release me.”
“I will not release you!” he declared, calmly, relentlessly. “You will become my wife to-morrow in the cathedral of Milan. And do you know why? Because the honour of a Barbiondi will hold you to the right.”
“Oh, I cannot!” she cried, and moved from him, but he followed.
“I am sure that you will,” he persisted. “I am sure that your better self will guide you when you pause to think.”
“Oh, it is impossible!” was all she could answer.
“It was not so impossible a few days ago,” he reminded her, cynically.