He stood immovable, his arms folded over his breast, his dark eyes fixed on her admiringly.
“What a magnificent beauty you are, Violet, especially when you get in a rage! But I like you all the better for your fire and spirit. There will be a zest in taming such a pretty tigress!” he laughed, insolently.
Her face became dead white; the lightnings of her indignant eyes might have blasted him where he stood. In a voice that vibrated with scorn and loathing, she cried:
“You are mad—mad! How can you dream that I will ever tolerate you? Why, I shrink from you in abhorrence too deep for words! Can I forget that a young girl’s ruin lies at your door, dastard? Can I forget that your hand is red with her father’s blood—murderer? Can I ever forgive myself that I did not risk the worst and denounce you to the law for your fiendish crime? Ah, had I not been such a coward, had I only done my duty and faced the consequences, I had never come to this terrible pass!”
“Hush! hush! the walls have ears!” he hissed, with a stifled oath, and the dew of deadly terror started out on his brow beneath the loose waves of his jetty hair.
“I will not hush! I have been silent too long! If the voice of conscience is dead in your heart, let me arouse it by taunting you with your sin!” Violet cried, in a passion of loathing anger that carried her beyond the bounds of prudence.
In another moment she realized her mistake, for, infuriated by her scorn, Harold Castello threw discretion to the winds, and sprang toward her, crying, maliciously:
“You shall not taunt me, lovely one, for I will smother the words on your lips with kisses!”
His arms were outstretched, his hot breath fanned her cheek, and in another moment he would have clasped her in his arms, but Violet eluded him by stooping suddenly, then darting forward in breathless flight toward the door.
With a bound, the man placed himself in her way; then commenced a terrible pursuit that could have but one end—his victory.