He was calmer now, but it was the calmness of determination.
"Let us die, dear—let us die! Virginius slew his daughter to save her honor. You are more to me than a thousand daughters. You are my wife, Opal!—Opal, my very own!"
His eyes softened again, as the storm outside lulled for a moment.
"My darling, don't be afraid! I will save you from him. I will keep you mine—mine!"
The thunder crashed again, and again the fury leaped to his eyes. He drew from his pocket a curious foreign dagger, engraved with quaint designs, and glittering with encrusted gold. Opal recognized it at once. She had toyed with it the day before, admiring the richness of its material and workmanship.
"She—has been—mine—my wife," he muttered to himself, wildly, disconnectedly, yet with startling distinctness. "She shall never, never lie in his arms!"
He passed his hand across his eyes, as if to brush away a veil.
"Oh, the red! the red! the red! It's blood and fire and hell! It glares in my eyes! It screams in my ears! Bidding me kill! kill!"
He clasped her to him fiercely.
"To see you, after all this—to see you go from me—and know you were going to him—him—while I went ... Oh, beloved! beloved! God never meant that! Surely He never meant that when He created us the creatures that we are!"