Visconti rose suddenly, with such force as to fling over the chair. "Cease!" he cried. "Wilt thou drink this? or who dost thou think will dare to interrupt me now?"
Valentine's wild eyes looked at him in silence a moment, then her glance dropped.
"Give it me," she whispered.
Visconti did not move.
"Come and take it," he said.
She came slowly, one hand against the wall, her long shadow flickering before her.
Visconti watched her, motionless. "Make haste," he said. "Make haste."
She came to the table, her eyes down, her breast heaving, past tears or entreaties.
"Drink!" said Visconti, leaning with narrowing eyes across the space between them. "Drink in it Della Scala's health, as thou didst once before."
Valentine raised her head and looked at him, and grew fascinated with terror. She crouched away from him, and lifted the glass to her lips.