“No!  No!  I do not accept that refusal.  No! you did not know what you were saying.  I swear to you, Marsa, that without you life is impossible to me; all my existence is bound up in yours.  You will reflect there was an accent in your voice which bade me hope.  I will come again to-morrow.  Tomorrow, Marsa.  What you have said to-day does not count.  Tomorrow, to-morrow; and remember that I adore you.”

And she, shuddering at the tones of his voice, not daring to say no, and to bid him an eternal farewell, let him depart, confident, hopeful, despite the silence to which she obstinately, desperately clung.  Then, when Andras was gone, at the end of her strength, she threw herself, like a mad woman, down upon the divan.  Once alone, she gave way utterly, sobbing passionately, and then, suddenly ceasing, with wild eyes fixed upon vacancy, to mutter with dry, feverish lips: 

“Yet—­it is life he brings to me—­happiness he offers me.  Have I no right to be happy—­I?  My God!  To be the wife of such a man!  To love him—­to devote myself to him-to make his existence one succession of happy days!  To be his slave, his thing!  Shall I marry him?  Or—­shall I kill myself?  Kill myself!” with a horrible, agonizing laugh.  “Yes, that is the only thing for me to do.  But—­but—­I am a coward, now that I love him—­a coward! a coward! a miserable wretch!” And she fell headlong forward, crouching upon the floor in a fierce despair, as if either life or reason was about to escape from her forever.

CHAPTER IX

“O liberty!  O love!  These two I need!”

When Zilah came the next day he found Marsa perfectly calm.  At first he only questioned her anxiously as to her health.

“Oh!  I am well,” she replied, smiling a little sadly; and, turning to the piano at which she was seated, she began to play the exquisitely sad romance which was her favorite air.

“That is by Janos Nemeth, is it not?” asked the Prince.

“Yes, by Janos Nemeth.  I am very fond of his music; it is so truly Hungarian in its spirit.”

The music fell upon the air like sighs—­like the distant tones of a bell tolling a requiem—­a lament, poetic, mournful, despairing, yet ineffably sweet and tender, ending in one deep, sustained note like the last clod of earth falling upon a new-made grave.

“What is that called, Marsa?” said Andras.

She made no reply.

Rising, he looked at the title, printed in Hungarian; then, leaning over the Tzigana till his breath fanned her cheek, he murmured: 

“Janos Nemeth was right.  The world holds but one fair maiden.”

She turned very pale, rose from the piano, and giving him her hand, said: 

“It is almost a madrigal, my dear Prince, is it not?  I am going to be frank with you.  You love me, I know; and I also love you.  Will you give me a month to reflect?  A whole month?”