Sanson was still standing in front of the divan. He had not drunk; he held the cup in his hand and was himself as immobile as a statue.
“Will you not drink the pledge that I have drunk?” asked Amaranth, laying her fingers lightly on his arm and leaning toward him.
And I had underestimated Sanson after all. Now, at the moment of surrender, his indomitable will flamed out, seeming to possess his body and mold each feature, every muscle to its unconquerable resolve.
“I will not drink!” he cried, and flung the cup to the floor.
He turned and strode from the room like the conqueror he was. He passed the curtain, which fell behind him. He had won his hardest battle, taken unaware, fighting against a cunning ambush; and I knew now that hardly an earthly enemy could conquer him.
I was in the room now, for there was no need to hide myself any longer. I watched Amaranth, who, as statuesque as Sanson had been, stood looking after him. A minute passed.
Suddenly she wheeled about and clapped her hands to her side. She staggered; a spasm of pain crossed her face, and she looked searchingly at Coral. The maid in the blue tunic looked back at her, smiling.
Their eyes did not waver until Amaranth swayed backward and fell on the divan. A scream broke from her lips, and then another; a third; she wrung her hands and moaned.
I kneeled before her. “What is it, Amaranth?” I cried.
