"Thou wilt not die?" said Visconti, softly, his eyes on her. "Thou wilt drink--this." And he touched the glass beside him. "Thou canst not be so cruel," pleaded Valentine. "I am thy sister, Gian----" "Do I think so much of family affection?" said Visconti. "Still, she was to be my wife! Thou wilt drink this." Valentine flung herself on her knees again, and dragged herself along the floor toward him. "Have pity!" she cried. "Have pity, I am so helpless! Spare me, and I will never offend thee again--never!" "Thou hast strangely lost thy courage," returned her brother. "What is there in drinking this wine?" She was at his feet, clinging to him, imploring. "Let me live till morning!" she pleaded. "Do not kill me here--in this dark chamber. Oh! I cannot die here, I cannot!" Visconti looked at her calmly. "Graziosa died not in a fairer place, she died lonely and alone," he said. "Thou wilt drink this." He put out his hand and drew the glass nearer. "Come, thou wilt drink this." "I am so young," sobbed Valentine. "Think, Gian; I am so young, Gian!" "Graziosa was no older," he said. She clung to his hand in agony, beseeching him, calling on him, wildly trying to move him to let her live until the morning--only until morning! "Graziosa died after the sun had set," said Visconti. "Drink the wine, nor keep me here so long. Thou hast often wished to escape--where is thy courage gone, not to take this chance?" "But not to die like this--not like this--give me a priest!" "Had Graziosa one?" She cowered down on the floor, her beautiful hair falling over her shoulders, her face hidden; then suddenly uplifted it again to Visconti, who sat looking at her, motionless. "Gian, I loved thee once, when we were little children." "I have forgotten it, and so hadst thou until this moment--drink!" Valentine sprang up in a paroxysm of uncontrollable terror. "I cannot! I cannot! Kill me thyself!" "With this?" and Visconti touched his dagger. "No; a smoother death for one so fair." Valentine flew to the door and clung to it. "Philippe! Philippe!" she shrieked. "Conrad! Costanza!" Visconti rose suddenly, with such force as to fling over the chair. "Cease!" he cried. "Wilt thou drink this? or who dost thou think will dare to interrupt me now?" Valentine's wild eyes looked at him in silence a moment, then her glance dropped. "Give it me," she whispered. Visconti did not move. "Come and take it," he said. She came slowly, one hand against the wall, her long shadow flickering before her. Visconti watched her, motionless. "Make haste," he said. "Make haste." She came to the table, her eyes down, her breast heaving, past tears or entreaties. "Drink!" said Visconti, leaning with narrowing eyes across the space between them. "Drink in it Della Scala's health, as thou didst once before." Valentine raised her head and looked at him, and grew fascinated with terror. She crouched away from him, and lifted the glass to her lips.