He offered the cup to Vytal. His hand shook, and the troubled wine overflowed the brim. “Drink,” he repeated, laughing hilariously. “Such a toast, such a child! You’ve heard her voice already. Damn it! Drink! Will you?”
For an instant Vytal’s face went livid with a fury no man had ever seen there until now. He clinched his fists; the nails bit into the palms. “Desecrator!” And in another minute he was groping his way through the darkness toward the gate, until, finding the path, his step became firm and regular on the hard earth, as though he were marching, then died away slowly in the woods.
CHAPTER XIII
“With hair that gilds the water as it glides
And …
One like Actæon peeping through the grove.”
—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
Weeks passed, and still the Spanish, for some unaccountable reason, delayed their invasion.