“Slept here!” he answered with curling lip, “and keep a civil tongue, baggage, or I shall strike you down. I have no ceremony with your kind.”
“Ah,” she whispered, “you would dare to murder me.”
“I have dared God, Himself,” he answered wildly, “I know nothing you can name I would not dare—but I should disdain to murder you—”
Her horror-stricken eyes dwelt on his magnificent face; her angry courage ebbed before his strangeness.
“Who are you?” she asked.
But he laughed, not heeding her; his eyes showed hazed and vacant.
“Accursed,” he muttered—“God knows—accursed—at least one of the masters of the earth—mad perhaps—you have heard of me, belike—” He turned a distracted gaze on her; she thought suddenly that he was mad—or drunk, and cowered against the wall in personal fear.
Again he laughed loudly, and moved unsteadily, lurching toward her, it was as if some passion of his soul had been suddenly loosed and blinded him.
“Black magic—and blood—” he said wildly.
“Cursed—always blood—and witchery—you cannot get rid of it—the thought of Hell—and the faces of your dead who died foully—your disfigured dead—and your child slaying your child—both damned—and singeing in Hell!”