Then he stood silent a long moment; perhaps he was rehearsing the scene
of his seizure.
"This is death," he muttered at last, "and I am in hell. I have always
known what it would be--dark--utter and bitter loss of light."
As his hand moved, the chain rattled. He sprang back with such violence
that his lunging weight jerked her to her feet.
"It is useless to struggle," she cried.
"A woman! Where am I?"
"You are lost."
"But what has happened? In God's name, _madame_, are we chained
together?"
"We are."
"By whose power? By whose right and command?"
"By one against whom we cannot appeal."
"My crime?"
"None."
"For how long--"
"Three days."
He heaved a great sigh of relief.
"It is merely some practical joke, I see. That infernal Franz, I knew he
was meditating mischief! Three days--and then free?"
"Yes, for then you die."
Once more he was silent.
Then: "This is a hideous dream. I will waken from it at once--at once.
My dear lady--"
She heard him advancing.
"Keep the chain taut, sir, I am armed; I will fire at the slightest
provocation."
He stopped and laughed.
"Come, come! This is not so bad. You have been smiling in your sleep at
me. Up with the lights, my dear. If Franz has engaged you for this
business, let me tell you that I'm a far better fellow than he must have
advertised me. But what a devil he is to rig up such an elaborate hoax!
By Jove, this chain--this darkness--it's enough to turn a fellow's hair
white! The black night gets on my nerves. Lights! Lights! I yearn to see
you; I prophesy your beauty by your voice! Still coy? Then we'll try
persuasion!"
His breast struck the muzzle of the revolver.
She said quietly: "If I move my finger a fraction of an inch you die,
sir. And every word I have spoken to you is the truth."
"Well, well! You do this finely. I shall compliment Franz on rehearsing
you so thoroughly. Is this the fair Daphne of whom he told me--"
And his hand touched her shoulder.
"By everything that is sacred, I will fire unless you stand back--back
to the end of the chain."
"Is it possible? The Middle Ages have returned!"
He moved back until the light chain was taut.
"My mind whirls. I try to laugh, but your voice convinces me. _Madame_,
will you explain my situation in words of one syllable?"
"I have explained it already. You are imprisoned in a place from which
you cannot escape. You will be confined here, held to me by this chain,
for three days. At the end of that time you die."
"Will you swear this is the truth?"
"Name any oath and I will repeat it."
"There's no need," he said. "No, it cannot be a jest. Franz would never
risk the use of a drug, wild as he is. Some other power has taken me.
What reason lies behind my arrest?"
"Think of it as a blind and brutal hand which required a victim and
reached out over the city to find one. The hand fell upon you. There is
no more to say. You can only resign yourself to die an unknown death."
He said at last: "Not unknown, thank God. I have something which will
live after me."
Her heart leaped, for she was seeing once more the artist from
Rembrandt's brush.
"Yes, your paintings will not be forgotten."
"I feel that they will not, and the name of--"
"Do not speak of it!"
"Why?"
"I must not hear your name."
"But you know it already. You spoke of my painting."
"I have never seen your face; I have never heard your name; you were
brought to me in this room darkened as you find it now."
"Yet you knew--"
Her voice was marvelously low: "I touched your face, sir, and in some
way I knew."
After a time he said: "I believe you. This miracle is no greater than
the others. But why do you not wish to know my name?"
"I may live after you, and when I see your pictures I do not wish to
say: 'This is his work; this is his power; this is his limitation.' Can
you understand?"
"I will try to."
"I sat beside you while you were unconscious, and I pictured your face
and your mind for myself. I will not have that picture reduced to
reality."
"It is a delicate fancy. You are blind? You see by the touch of your
hands?"
"I am not blind, but I think I have seen your face through the touch."
"Here! I have stumbled against two chairs. Let us sit down and talk. I
will slide this chair farther away if you wish. Do you fear me?"
"No, I think I am not afraid. I am only very sad for you. Listen: I have
laid down the revolver. Is that rash?"
"_Madame_, my life has been clean. Would I stain it now? No, no! Sit
here--so! My hand touches yours--you are not afraid?--and a thrill leaps
through me. Is it the dark that changes all things and gives eyes to
your imagination, or are you really very beautiful?"
"How shall I say?"
"Be very frank, for I am a dying man, am I not? And I should hear the
truth."
"You are a profound lover of the beautiful?"
"I am a painter, _madame_."
She called up the image of her face--the dingy brown hair, long and
silken, to be sure; the colorless, small eyes; the common features which
the first red-skinned farmer's daughter could overmatch.
"Describe me as you imagine me. I will tell you when you are wrong."
"May I touch you, _madame_, as you touched me? Or would that trouble
you?"
She hesitated, but it seemed to her that the questing eyes of
Rembrandt's portrait looked upon her through the dark--eyes reverent and
eager at once.