ip of her red
parasol.

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 th