"That picture," replied the artist, pausing in his occupation to point with his dagger at the canvas on the easel; "that picture is at a standstill for want of an appropriate model. I have found my model."
With parted lips and dilated eyes I gazed at the speaker, wondering whether he were in earnest. His easy air of unconcern inspired me with false hopes. He was only acting the part of a would-be assassin, I thought. It was a jest of his to frighten me. A trick to compel me perhaps to forswear all claim to Daphne.
"Do you hope to frighten me by these tricks?" I cried, assuming a courage I did not feel. "I have but to raise my voice——"
"Raise it, then."
There was a look in his eyes, a motion of the dagger that convinced me I had better not.
"You are wise. Your silence has added a few moments to your brief span of life."
If there had been a tremor in his voice, if his features had relaxed from their set expression, I could have hoped then that his humanity might yet triumph over the impulse of crime. But this cold, mechanical calmness—it was even a more frightful thing than the deed he was contemplating.
"Would you murder me for the sake of a picture?" I asked in as quiet a tone as I could assume.
"Killing in the interests of art is not murder, any more than the burning of a heretic in the interests of holy religion is murder."