“He is not forcing me; but I have promised,” repeated Alba.
“And you cannot love him?”
“No! and I have tried so hard.... But mother says that when I am his wife it will be different....”
“Yes, it will be worse, a thousand times worse! Alba, tell me this man’s name; trust me with your secret,” said Hermann, changing his angry tone to one of soft persuasion.
“I dare not,” said Alba in a frightened whisper; “you would go and kill him.” The great, swart eyes were looking up at him, full of trust and admiration.
“Kill him, child! Do you think me so terribly wicked? Do I look like a murderer?”
“It would not be murder in you. You are a warrior; you don’t think it wrong to kill men. That is what warriors are for; but I should not like you to kill poor Marcel.”
“Marcel!... Marcel! I seem to know that name,” said the count, musing. “Has he no other?”
“Yes, Marcel Caboff,” replied Alba in a confidential tone; “but you must not hurt him, monseigneur. Oh! I wish I had not told you.”
Hermann started and muttered something between his teeth which she did not hear, but his look frightened her.