“Talk no more about that,” said Baldassarre, fiercely. “I will have nothing else. Help me to wring one drop of vengeance on this side of the grave. I have nothing but my knife. It is sharp; but there is a moment after the thrust when men see the face of death—and it shall be my face that he will see.”
He loosed his hold, and sank down again in a sitting posture. Romola felt helpless: she must defer all intentions till the morrow.
“Midday, then,” she said, in a distinct voice.
“Yes,” he answered, with an air of exhaustion. “Go; I will rest here.”
She hastened away. Turning at the last spot whence he was likely to be in sight, she saw him seated still.