“Baron Benoni, I will not marry you, either for your fortune, your name, or yourself,—­nor for any other consideration under heaven.  And I will ask you not to address me by my Christian name.”  There was a long silence after this speech, and Benoni carefully lighted a second cigarette.  Hedwig would have risen and entered the house, but she felt safer in the free air of the sunny court.  As for Benoni, he had no intention of going.

“I suppose you are aware, countess,” he said at last, coldly eying her, “that your father has set his heart upon our union?”

“I am aware of it.”

“But you are not aware of the consequences of your refusal.  I am your only chance of freedom.  Take me, and you have the world at your feet.  Refuse me, and you will languish in this hideous place so long as your affectionate father pleases.”

“Do you know my father so little, sir,” asked Hedwig very proudly, “as to suppose that his daughter will ever yield to force?”

“It is one thing to talk of not yielding, and it is quite another to bear prolonged suffering with constancy,” returned Benoni coolly, as though he were discussing a general principle instead of expounding to a woman the fate she had to expect if she refused to marry him.  “I never knew anyone who did not talk bravely of resisting torture until it was applied.  Oh, you will be weak at the end, countess, believe me.  You are weak now; and changed, though perhaps you would be better pleased if I did not notice it.  Yes, I smile now,—­I laugh.  I can afford to.  You can be merry over me because I love you, but I can be merry at what you must suffer if you will not love me.  Do not look so proud, countess.  You know what follows pride, if the proverb lies not.”

During this insulting speech Hedwig had risen to her feet, and in the act to go she turned and looked at him in utter scorn.  She could not comprehend the nature of a man who could so coldly threaten her.  If ever anyone of us can fathom Benoni’s strange character we may hope to understand that phase of it along with the rest.

He seemed as indifferent to his own mistakes and follies as to the sufferings of others.

“Sir,” she said, “whatever may be the will of my father, I will not permit you to discuss it, still less to hold up his anger as a threat to scare me.  You need not follow me,” she added, as he rose.

“I will follow you, whether you wish it or not, countess,” he said, fiercely; and, as she flew across the court to the door he strode swiftly by her side, hissing his words into her ear.  “I will follow you to tell you that I know more of you than you think, and I know how little right you have to be so proud.  I know your lover.  I know of your meetings, your comings and your goings—­” They reached the door, but Benoni barred the way with his long arm, and seemed about to lay a hand upon her wrist, so that she shrank back against the heavy doorpost in an agony of horror and loathing and wounded