“When you show me pity,” he answered.
She was beaten. “You—you swear to let him go—to see him safely out of England—if—if I consent?”
His eyes blazed. He came back swiftly, and she stood, a frozen thing, passively awaiting him; a frozen thing, she let him take her in his arms, yielding herself in horrific surrender.
He held her close a moment, the blood surging to his face, and glowing darkly through the swarthy skin. “Have I conquered, then?” he cried. “You'll marry me, Hortensia?”
“At that price,” she answered piteously, “at that price.”
“Shalt find me a gentle, loving husband, ever. I swear it before Heaven!” he vowed, the ardor of his passion softening his nature, as steel is softened in the fire.
“Then be it so,” she said, and her tone was less cold, for she began to glow, as it were, with the ardor of the sacrifice that she was making—began to experience the exalted ecstasy of martyrdom. “Save him, and you shall find me ever a dutiful wife to you, my lord—a dutiful wife.”
“And loving?” he demanded greedily.
“Even that. I promise it,” she answered.
With a hoarse cry, he stooped to kiss her; then, with an oath, he checked, and flung her from him so violently that she hurtled to a chair and sank to it, overbalanced. “No,” he roared, like a mad thing now. “Hell and damnation—no!”