“Then,” cried Menko, “you wish to push me to extremities! And yet I have told you there are certain hours of feverish insanity in which I am capable of committing a crime.” “I do not doubt it,” replied the young girl, coldly. “But, in fact, you have already done that. There is no crime lower than that of treachery.” “There is one more terrible,” retorted Michel Menko. “I have told you that I loved you. I love you a hundred times more now than ever before. Jealousy, anger, whatever sentiment you choose to call it, makes my blood like fire in my veins! I see you again as you were. I feel your kisses on my lips. I love you madly, passionately! Do you understand, Marsa? Do you understand?” and he approached with outstretched hands the Tzigana, whose frame was shaken with indignant anger. “Do you understand? I love you still. I was your lover, and I will, I will be so again.” “Ah, miserable coward!” cried the Tzigana, with a rapid glance toward the daggers, before which stood Menko, preventing her from advancing, and regarding her with eyes which burned with reckless passion, wounded self-love, and torturing jealousy. “Yes, coward!” she repeated, “coward, coward to dare to taunt me with an infamous past and speak of a still more infamous future!” “I love you!” exclaimed Menko again. “Go!” she cried, crushing him with look and gesture. “Go! I order you out of my presence, lackey! Go!” All the spirit of the daughters of the puszta, the violent pride of her Hungarian blood, flashed from her eyes; and Menko, fascinated, gazed at her as if turned to stone, as she stood there magnificent in her anger, superb in her contempt. “Yes, I will go to-day,” he said at last, “but tomorrow night I shall come again, Marsa. As my dearest treasure, I have preserved the key of that gate I opened once to meet you who were waiting for me in the shadow of the trees. Have you forgotten that, also? You say you have forgotten all.” And as he spoke, she saw again the long alley behind the villa, ending in a small gate which, one evening after the return from Pau, Michel opened, and came, as he said, to meet her waiting for him. It was true. Yes, it was true. Menko did not lie this time! She had waited for him there, two years before, unhappy girl that she was! All that hideous love she had believed lay buried in Pau as in a tomb. “Listen, Marsa,” continued Menko, suddenly recovering, by a strong effort of the will, his coolness, “I must see you once again, have one more opportunity to plead my cause. The letters you wrote to me, those dear letters which I have covered with my kisses and blistered with my tears, those letters which I have kept despite your prayers and your commands, those letters which have been my only consolation--I will bring them to you to-morrow night. Do you understand me?” Her great eyes fixed, and her lips trembling horribly, Marsa made no reply. “Do you understand me, Marsa?” he repeated, imploring and threatening at once.