The steel-blue glitter of his eyes was diabolical as he fixed them upon her, and continued:
"Of course you understand that I have run a great risk in bringing you here, and made myself liable to the law for kidnaping—that is, unless you marry me, and give the affair the color of an elopement."
He paused, but she did not speak, so he went on:
"No search is being made for you by your friends, for a note was left in your room, stating that you had fled to marry your lover, Harry Hawthorne. Your mother believes that statement, and so there is not the least suspicion that I carried you off."
"You fiend!" she cried; then added: "But Harry Hawthorne will search for me!"
"Harry Hawthorne gave up the search for you weeks ago, and sailed for Europe."
"It is false!"
"It is perfectly true. Why he went, I know not, but I have read in a New York paper of his going. Believe me or not, as you will, my charmer, but you are entirely in my power, without hope of rescue, and I am desperate with love for you. I will not permit rivalry from any living man. Either my bride you shall be, or the bride of Death!"
She sat listening and shuddering before the terrible decision of his words, and the blue fire of his determined eyes. She felt that neither prayers nor tears would move him. He was mad with love, stubborn with a sense of power.
Changing his mood, he began to pour out in burning words all the mighty strength of his passion, pleading, raving, imploring her kindness in return.