"And deem you, fairest Theodora, that the sainted pilgrim will come?" Basil interposed with an evil leer.
An inscrutable smile curved Theodora's crimson lips.
"Let that be my affair, my lord, but—that everything may be clear between us—know this: when I summoned him, after he had spurned me on the night when I intended to make him the happiest of men, it was to torture him, to make a mock of him, to arouse his passions till they overmastered all else, till in very truth he forgot his God, his honor, and the woman for whose kisses he does such noble penance—but now—"
"But now?" came the echo from Basil's lips.
"Who says I shall not?" Theodora replied with her inscrutable smile. "Who shall gainsay me? You—my lord?"
There was a strange light in Basil's eyes, kindled by her mockery.
"And when he kneels at your feet, drunk with passion—laying bare his soul in his mad infatuation—who shall prevent this dagger from drinking his heart's blood, even as he peers into the portals of bliss?"
Theodora's eyes flashed lightnings.
"I shall kill you with my own hands, if you but dare but touch one hair of his head," she said with a calm that was more terrible than any outburst of rage would have been. "He is mine, to do with as I choose, and look well to it, my lord, that your shadow darken not the path between us.—Else I shall demand of you such a reckoning as none who may hear of it in after days shall dare thwart Theodora—either in love or in hate."
Basil's writhing form swayed to and fro; passion-tossed he tried in vain to speak when she raised her hand.