“I shall kill you if you marry him,” I threatened; the words came hoarsely and dully from my breast. “You are mine, I won’t let you go, I love you too much.” Then I clutched her and pressed her close to me; my right hand involuntarily seized the dagger which I still had in my belt.
Wanda fixed a large, calm, incomprehensible look on me.
“I like you that way,” she said, carelessly. “Now you are a man, and at this moment I know I still love you.”
“Wanda,” I wept with rapture, and bent down over her, covering her dear face with kisses, and she, suddenly breaking into a loud gay laugh, said, “Have you finished with your ideal now, are you satisfied with me?”
“You mean?” I stammered, “that you weren’t serious?”
“I am very serious,” she gaily continued. “I love you, only you, and you—you foolish, little man, didn’t know that everything was only make-believe and play-acting. How hard it often was for me to strike you with the whip, when I would have rather taken your head and covered it with kisses. But now we are through with that, aren’t we? I have played my cruel role better than you expected, and now you will be satisfied with my being a good, little wife who isn’t altogether unattractive. Isn’t that so? We will live like rational people—”
“You will marry me!” I cried, overflowing with happiness.
“Yes—marry you—you dear, darling man,” whispered Wanda, kissing my hands.
I drew her up to my breast.
“Now, you are no longer Gregor, my slave,” said she, “but Severin, the dear man I love—”