"I will not go back again!" cried Antonio, "after having run half the way like a dog behind his mistress, whom a robber has kidnapped, and ridden the other half cramped up in straw in a wagon, like an animal taken to market by the butcher. I don't intend to be a dog, worse than a beast, any longer, and I will no longer endure it. I now know everything, everything, everything!—How he has betrayed you, the infamous coward, to run after another, and again from her to you, and has lain before your door whining for favor, while those inside have been making a match for him. His wench and that infernal Giraldi, whom I intend to throttle whenever and wherever I meet him, as truly as my name is Antonio Michele! I know everything, everything, everything—and that you will yield your person to him tonight, as you have already yielded your soul to him!"
The desperate man could not understand the half contemptuous, half melancholy smile which played about the proud lips of the beautiful girl.
"Don't laugh, or I'll kill you!"
And then as she arose—not from fear, but only to ward off the furious man——
"Pardon, oh! pardon me—I kill you, you—you, who are everything to me, the light and joy of my life, for whom I would let myself be torn in pieces, limb by limb! I will give every drop of my heart's blood if you will only let me kiss the hem of your garment—kiss the ground upon which you tread! How often, how often, have I done it without your knowing it—in your studio—the place where your beautiful feet have rested, the implements which your hand has touched! And I demand so little! I am willing to wait—for years—as I have already waited for years; I shall not grow tired of serving you, of worshiping you as the Holy Madonna, till the day comes when you will hear my prayers."
He dropped to his knees where he stood, lifting his wild eyes and twitching hands to her.
"Arise!" she said; "you do not know what you say, and do not know to whom you speak. I can give you nothing. I have nothing to give; I am so poor, so poor—much poorer than you!"
She went about the room, wringing her hands; passed him still kneeling, and, when her garments touched his glowing face, he sprang to his feet as though touched by an electric current.
"I am not poor," he cried; "I am the son of a prince—I am more than a prince; I am Michelangelo! I am more than Michelangelo! I see them coming in pilgrim troops, singing songs in praise of immortal Antonio, bearing flowers, waving wreaths to decorate the marvelous works of the divine Antonio! Do you hear! Do you hear? There, there!"
Up the broad village street came a confused cry of many voices, of people terrified by the news of the flood, which had broken through the dikes, and running down to the scene of the disaster. From the tower of the church nearby the tones of the bell resounded, now threateningly near, now quavering in the distance, as the storm surged to and fro.