"Theodora's discarded lover? Why should I muffle my speech to please his ear?"
The girl laughed nervously.
"Because the tongue of a fool, when long enough, is a rope to hang him by,—and he loves her still!"
"He loves her still," drawled the half-intoxicated Patrician, turning his head toward the spot where Benilo sat listening with flaming eyes. "The impudence!"
And he staggered to his feet, holding aloft the goblet with one hand, while the other encircled the body of the dancing girl, who tried in vain to silence him.
"Fill your goblets," he shouted,—"fill your goblets full—to the brim."
He glanced round the hall with insolent bravado, while Benilo, who had not lost a word the other had spoken, leaned forward, his thin lips straightening in a hard white line, while his narrowing eyelids and his trembling hands attested his pent up ire louder than words.
"A toast to the absent," shrieked Roffredo. "A toast to the most beautiful and the most virtuous woman in Rome, a toast to—"
He paused for an instant, for a white-cheeked face close to his, whispered:
"Stop! On your life be silent!"