y made to kill at his mistress's order, only of use to draw the
stiletto in secrecy at the whim and will of a woman.

I was Italian, yet I dared not slay a feeble old man in the soft dark of
a summer night, to find my reward on the breast of his wife.

Silence fell between us. Her eyes of scorn glanced over me, and all her
beauty tempted me and cried to me, "Kill, kill, kill! and all this is
thine!"

Then her eyes filled with tears, her proud loveliness grew humble, and,
a supplicant, she stretched out her arms to me: she cried, "Ah, you love
me not: you have no pity. I may live and die here: you will not save me.
You are strong as the lions are--you are so strong, and yet you are
afraid."

I shook in all my limbs. Yes, I was afraid--I was afraid of her, afraid
of myself. I shivered: she looked at me always, her burning eyes now
humid and soft with tears.

"In open war, in combat, all you wish," I said to her slowly. "But an
old man--in secret--to be his assassin--"

My voice failed me. I saw the light in the lamp that swung above,
oscillating between us: it seemed to me like the frail life of Taddeo
Marchioni that swung on a thread at our will.

She drew herself upward once more. Her tears were burned up in the fires
of a terrible dumb rage. She cried aloud, "You are a coward. Go!"

I fell once more at her feet; I seized her by her gown; I kissed her
feet. "Any other thing!" I cried to her in my anguish--"any other thing!
But the life of a weak old man! It would be horrible. I am not a coward:
I am brave. It is for cowards to kill the feeble: I cannot. And you
would not wish it? No, no, you would not wish it? It is a dream, a
nightmare! It is not possible. I adore you! I adore you! I am a madman.
I am yours; I give you my life; I give you my body and my soul. But to
kill a feeble old man that I could crush in my arms as a fly is stifled
in wine! No, no, no! Any other thing, any other thing! But not that."

She thrust me from her with her foot. "That or nothing," she said
coldly.

The sweat fell from my brow in the agony of this horrible hour. I was
ready to give my life for her, but an old man, a murder done in secret!
All my soul revolted.

"But you love me!" I cried to her; and a great sob rose in my throat.

"You refuse to do this thing?" she answered.

"Yes."

Then she threw me away from her with the strength of a tigress:
"Imbecile! You thought I loved you? I should have used you: that is
all."