The artist took up from the table the poniard with the red stain on its blade, and proceeded to sharpen the edge on a square slab of marble that did duty occasionally as a palette. Silly that I was! I actually believed that my bold manner had frightened him, and that he was going to comply with my request. The noise produced by the sharpening process was not a pleasant one, and it set my teeth on edge. "Oh, that'll do!" I cried impatiently--that is, impatiently for a captive, dependent on the pleasure of another for his release. "That'll do. It's sharp enough for the purpose." "Pardon me, no," he replied, lifting his eyes from the dagger to contemplate me for a moment. "It's not sharp enough for the purpose." Something in the intonation of his voice drove out the last traces of the drug, and restored me instantly to the full use of my faculties, as drunken men are said to become sobered by a sudden shock. "What are you going to do?" I cried. As if there could be any doubt in the matter! "Immortalise you by my art." If he had said that he was going to take vengeance on a rival whom he hated I should have understood him, but this speech of his was unintelligible. "What are you going to do, I ask?" "I have told you: make a sacrifice on the altar of art." "What on earth do you mean?" I cried, tugging at my bonds. "That picture," replied the artist, pausing in his occupation to point with his dagger at the canvas on the easel; "that picture is at a standstill for want of an appropriate model. _I have found my model_." With parted lips and dilated eyes I gazed at the speaker, wondering whether he were in earnest. His easy air of unconcern inspired me with false hopes. He was only acting the part of a would-be assassin, I thought. It was a jest of his to frighten me. A trick to compel me perhaps to forswear all claim to Daphne. "Do you hope to frighten me by these tricks?" I cried, assuming a courage I did not feel. "I have but to raise my voice----" "Raise it, then." There was a look in his eyes, a motion of the dagger that convinced me I had better not. "You are wise. Your silence has added a few moments to your brief span of life." If there had been a tremor in his voice, if his features had relaxed from their set expression, I could have hoped then that his humanity might yet triumph over the impulse of crime. But this cold, mechanical calmness--it was even a more frightful thing than the deed he was contemplating. "Would you murder me for the sake of a picture?" I asked in as quiet a tone as I could assume. "Killing in the interests of art is not murder, any more than the burning of a heretic in the interests of holy religion is murder."