'I cannot be yours,' said Zita in a firm voice. 'And now that you have said this, I shall leave the house.'
'You shall not leave this house!' he cried fiercely. 'If you attempt it,—if I see that you are about to attempt it—and I know whither you would go,—then I will shoot you first, and myself afterwards.'
'I have to do, then, with a madman?'
'Be it so—with a madman; mad on one matter only, mad for one thing only—you. I make no empty threat. I swear by these stars I will do what I threaten. I cannot and I will not live without you. I will kill you rather than that you should belong to another.'
Zita came forward from the door, came to the table.
'I can never be yours,' she said in a tone as earnest, as grave as his. 'There is that between us which makes it for ever impossible.'
'What is the that—Mark Runham?'
'No—not Mark Runham.'
'Who is it, then?'
'There is no who. There is a something. Must I tell you what it is? I would gladly spare you.'