Lucille is mine--mine she will
remain, even though you should descend to something more despicable,
more cowardly than ordinary treason, to wrest her from me. You
reproach me with the failures of my life. Great they may have been,
but if you attempt this you will find that I am not yet an impotent
person."
The Prince was white with rage. The sight of Lucille standing by
Mr. Sabin's side, her hand lightly resting upon his, her dark eyes
full of inscrutable tenderness, maddened him. He was flouted and
ignored. He was carried away by a storm of passion. He tore a
sheet of paper from his pocket book, and unlocking a small gold
case at the end of his watch chain, shook from it a pencil with
yellow crayon. Mr. Sabin leaned over towards him.
"You sign it at your peril, Prince," he said. "It will mean worse
things than that for you."
For a second he hesitated. Lucille also leaned towards him.
"Prince," she said, "have I not kept my vows faithfully? Think!
I came from America at a moment's notice; I left my husband without
even a word of farewell; I entered upon a hateful task, and though
to think of it now makes me loathe myself--I succeeded. I have
kept my vows, I have done my duty. Be generous now, and let me go."
The sound of her voice maddened him. A passionate, arbitrary man,
to whom nothing in life had been denied, to be baulked in this
great desire of his latter days was intolerable.
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