me; he will be my husband."

"Never," said Piombo. "I would rather see you in your coffin,
Ginevra."

The old Corsican rose and began to stride up and down the salon,
dropping the following sentences, one by one, after pauses which
betrayed his agitation.

"You think you can bend my will. Undeceive yourself. A Porta shall
never be my son; that is my decree. Let there be no further question
of this between us. I am Bartolomeo di Piombo; do you hear me,
Ginevra?"

"Do you attach some mysterious meaning to those words?" she asked,
coldly.

"They mean that I have a dagger, and that I do not fear man's justice.
Corsicans explain themselves to God."

"And I," said the daughter, rising, "am Ginevra Piombo, and I declare
that within six months I shall be the wife of Luigi Porta. You are a
tyrant, my father," she added, after a terrifying pause.

Bartolomeo clenched his fists and struck them on the marble of the
chimneypiece.

"Ah! we are in Paris!" he muttered.

Then he was silent, crossed his arms, bowed his head on his breast,