“You think yourself brave enough to kill me, do you?” he sneered. “Then take this, and strike, if you dare. Take it—strike, Madame! It is sharp, and my arms are open.” And he flung them wide, standing within a pace of her. “Here, above the collar-bone, is the surest for a weak hand. What, afraid?” he continued, as, stiffly clutching the weapon which he had put into her hand, she glared at him, trembling and astonished. “Afraid, and a Vrillac! Afraid, and ’tis but one blow! See, my arms are open. One blow home, and you will never lie in them. Think of that. One blow home, and you may lie in his. Think of that! Strike, then, Madame,” he went on, piling taunt on taunt, “if you dare, and if you hate me. What, still afraid! How shall I give you heart? Shall I strike you? It will not be the first time by ten. I keep count, you see,” he continued mockingly. “Or shall I kiss you? Ay, that may do. And it will not be against your will, either, for you have that in your hand will save you in an instant. Even”—he drew a foot nearer—“now! Even” And he stooped until his lips almost touched hers.
She sprang back. “Oh, do not!” she cried. “Oh, do not!” And, dropping the dagger, she covered her face with her hands, and burst into weeping.
He stooped coolly, and, after groping some time for the poniard, drew it from the leaves among which it had fallen. He put it into the sheath, and not until he had done that did he speak. Then it was with a sneer.
“I have no need to fear overmuch,” he said. “You are a poor hater, Madame. And poor haters make poor lovers. ’Tis his loss! If you will not strike a blow for him, there is but one thing left. Go, dream of him!”
And, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he turned on his heel.
