Die, yes; he had often read in novels about people dying for love.  And he had always laughed at the absurdity of such a thing.  But he understood now.  Many a night, tossing in his delirium, he had thought of ending his misery in some tragic manner.  The violent, domineering blood of his father seethed in his veins.  Once firmly convinced she could never be his, he would kill her, to keep her from belonging to anybody... and then stab himself!  They would fall together to the blood-soaked ground, and lie there as on a bed of red damask, and he would kiss her cold lips, without fear of being disturbed; kiss her and kiss her, till the last breath of his life exhaled upon her livid mouth.

He seemed to be saying all that with deadly earnestness.  The muscles of his strong face quivered, and his eyes—­Moorish eyes—­glowed like live coals.  Leonora was looking at him passionately now, as if a man were in front of her.  She shuddered with a strange fascination as she pictured his barbarous dreams, fraught with blood and death.  This was something new!  This boy, when he saw that his love was vain, would not gloomily and prosaically slay himself as Macchia, the Italian poet, had done.  He would die, but asserting himself, killing the woman, destroying his idol when it would not harken to his entreaties!

And, pleasantly excited by Rafael’s tragic demeanor, she gave way to the thrill of it, letting herself be carried along by his anguished rapture.  He had taken her arm and was drawing her off the path, out among the low-hanging branches of the orange-trees.

For some time they were both silent.  Leonora seemed to be drinking in the virile perfume of that savage passionate adoration.

Rafael thought he had offended her, and was sorry for his violent words.

She must pardon him; he was beside himself, exasperated beyond bounds at her strange resistance.  Leonora!  Leonora!  Why persist in spoiling a perfectly beautiful thing?  He was not wholly a matter of indifference in her eyes.  She did not dislike him.  Otherwise she would not have let him be a friend and have permitted his frequent visits.  Love?...  Of course she did not love him—­poor unhappy wretch that he was, incapable of inspiring passion in a woman like her.  But let her just accept him.  He would teach her to love him in time, win her by the sheer beauty of his own tenderness and worship.  His love alone, alas, was great enough for both of them and for all the famous lovers in history put together!  He would be her slave; a carpet for her to tread underfoot; a dog, always at her feet, his eyes burning with the fire of eternal fidelity!  She would finally learn to be fond of him, if not out of passion, at least out of gratitude and pity!

And as he spoke, he brought his face close to Leonora’s, looking for his own image in the depths of her green eyes; and he pressed her arm in a fever of passion.

“Careful, Rafael....  That hurts!  Let go, of me.”