She fixed her eye intently on him.
"What has become of my Phœbus?"
"Ah!" said the priest, releasing her arm, "you are pitiless."
"What has become of Phœbus?" she repeated coldly.
"He is dead!" cried the priest.
"Dead!" said she, still icy and motionless; "then why do you talk to me of living?"
He was not listening to her.
"Oh! yes," said he, as though speaking to himself, "he certainly must be dead. The blade pierced deeply. I believe I touched his heart with the point. Oh! my very soul was at the end of the dagger!"
The young girl flung herself upon him like a raging tigress, and pushed him upon the steps of the staircase with supernatural force.
"Begone, monster! Begone, assassin! Leave me to die! May the blood of both of us make an eternal stain upon your brow! Be thine, priest! Never! never! Nothing, shall unite us! not hell itself! Go, accursed man! never!"
The priest had stumbled on the stairs. He silently disentangled his feet from the folds of his robe, picked up his lantern again, and slowly began the ascent of the steps which led to the door; he opened the door and passed through it.
All at once, the young girl beheld his head reappear; it wore a frightful expression, and he cried, hoarse with rage and despair,—
"I tell you he is dead!"
She fell face downwards upon the floor, and there was no longer any sound audible in the cell than the sob of the drop of water which made the pool palpitate amid the darkness.
