And he answers, bluntly, almost angrily:
"No, I will not."
And for the first time since their interview, Reine shows a sign of weakness. She reels unsteadily, and throws up her white hands in the air.
"I have failed, I have failed," she cries, despairingly. "Oh, you are merciless; you are a veritable Shylock. Nothing will sate your thirst for vengeance but a pound of flesh!"
He catches the falling figure in his arms. For one moment the white, anguished face rests against his breast, then she opens her eyes and struggles from his clasp.
"Do not touch me," she says, with indignant scorn. "You are a monster!"
And his own conscience, knocking loudly at the door of his heart, echoes the words.
"Reine, Reine," he falters, hurriedly, "do not be hasty. Give me a little time. I will answer you to-morrow."
"You take back your refusal?" brightening so swiftly that you think of the sun coming out from under a cloud.