Nothing was left of the wreath now but some strands of wire and a few loose leaves—Olof spurned it aside, and the veil after it. Then he drew himself up, and looked at Kyllikki with the eyes of a man who has crushed one foe and prepares to meet another.
"Will you be good enough to tell me what all this means?" said Kyllikki, calmly as ever, but with a new note in her voice that almost amazed herself.
"Tell you? Ay, by Heaven. If I had my pistol here, I'd answer you so that you should never ask again!"
Kyllikki shuddered—a chill sense of utter helplessness came over her. She was shamed and insulted, her bridal wreath trampled underfoot, and she herself here alone with a man who raved and threatened furiously. She looked at him earnestly, as if trying to read him through. And she felt that here was indeed something great and terrible, on which her future—their future—depended; a single word or gesture on her part might be fatal. Suddenly a thought crossed her mind and the blood rushed to her head…. Could he dare?… Was his anger greater than his love?
Swiftly she decided—now or never, it must be done, or all would be lost. Stepping across to a chest, she opened the lowest drawer and felt for something there … no … and she tried the next. A moment after, she rose to her feet and walked firmly over to where Olof stood.
A large, old-fashioned revolver was in her hand; the dark barrel glinted in the light as she laid it on the table.
"There is the thing you wanted. It is loaded. Now, answer me, if you please."
She spoke slowly, putting forth all her strength to keep her voice from trembling. Then stepping back, she stood waiting, her face pale, her eyes fixed on Olof's face.
It was the critical moment. To Kyllikki it seemed endless, as she stood there stiffly, dreading with every breath lest she should fall.
Olof stood motionless, staring at her as at a vision. Once before he had seen her thus—during the ordeal with her father. A stifling fear came over him as he marked the similarity.