She placed her hand timidly on his arm; but he swung it off with so dark an expression on his face that I had almost thrown myself between them.
"I want not your pity," he exclaimed scornfully, turning the fire of his eyes on her, "if I cannot have your love!"
And, ignoble at heart, he began now to sneer at the prize he found beyond his reach.
"And so," he continued in a bitter tone, "rather than accept the love of one who can immortalise you by his pencil you prefer to be a living cenotaph whose sad aspect testifies the esteem set upon her by her first lover!"
Dropping his sneering tone for one of fierce anger, he added:
"You must have some less fanciful reason for rejecting me than this absurd attachment to—to a shadow. Tell me, do you not love another?"
"Mr. Vasari, you have no right to question me thus. You have received your answer, and this meeting may as well end, since it seems now that insult is to be my portion."
And she turned proudly to go.
"Stay!" cried Angelo, barring her passage. "You evade my question. You love another. Nay, do not deny it. I will not accept your denial. I know who my rival is. Let him beware. You may listen to his whispered words, smile at his kisses, receive his gifts; but never shall you go with him to the altar! Rather will I see you dead by my own hand first!"
"Oh, why do you talk so wildly? Leave me and think no more of me. There are many women whose love is more worth winning than mine. Try to forget me."