“Come,” he went on with a gush, “forego this virgin coyness, you have done enough and more than enough for honour, now throw aside pretence, lay down your arms and yield. No hour, I swear, of this long fight will be so happy to you as that of your sweet surrender, for remember, dear one, that I, your conqueror, am in truth the conquered. I, abandoning——” He got no further, for at this point the sorely tried Elsa lost control of herself, but not in the fashion which he hoped for and expected. “Are you crazed, Heer Adrian,” she asked, “that you should insist thus in pouring this high-flown nonsense into my ears when I have told you that it is unwelcome to me? I understand that you ask me for my love. Well, once for all I tell you that I have none to give.” This was a blow, since it was impossible for Adrian to put a favourable construction upon language so painfully straightforward. His self-conceit was pierced at last and collapsed like a pricked bladder. “None to give!” he gasped, “none to give! You don’t mean to tell me that you have given it to anybody else?” “Yes, I do,” she answered, for by now Elsa was thoroughly angry. “Indeed,” he replied loftily. “Let me see; last time it was your lamented father who occupied your heart. Perhaps now it is that excellent giant, Martin, or even—no, it is too absurd”—and he laughed in his jealous rage, “even the family buffoon, my worthy brother Foy.” “Yes,” she replied quietly, “it is Foy.” “Foy! Foy! Hear her, ye gods! My successful rival, mine, is the yellow-headed, muddy-brained, unlettered Foy—and they say that women have souls! Of your courtesy answer me one question. Tell me when did this strange and monstrous thing happen? When did you declare yourself vanquished by the surpassing charms of Foy?” “Yesterday afternoon, if you want to know,” she said in the same calm and ominous voice. Adrian heard, and an inspiration took him. He dashed his hand to his brow and thought a moment; then he laughed loud and shrilly. “I have it,” he said. “It is the love charm which has worked perversely. Elsa, you are under a spell, poor woman; you do not know the truth. I gave you the philtre in your drinking water, and Foy, the traitor Foy, has reaped its fruits. Dear girl, shake yourself free from this delusion, it is I whom you really love, not that base thief of hearts, my brother Foy.” “What do you say? You gave me a philtre? You dare to doctor my drink with your heathen nastiness? Out of the way, sir! Stand off, and never venture to speak to me again. Well will it be for you if I do not tell your brother of your infamy.” What happened after this Adrian could never quite remember, but a vision remained of himself crouching to one side, and of a door flung back so violently that it threw him against the wall; a vision, too, of a lady sweeping past him with blazing eyes and lips set in scorn. That was all.