Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 10, 2025
When he feverishly asked himself this question, Zilah recalled at the same time Marsa, crouching at his feet, and giving no other excuse than this: "I loved you! I wished to belong to you, to be your wife!" His wife! Yes, the beautiful Tzigana he had met at Baroness Dinati's was now his wife! He could punish or pardon.
Every note of the well-known airs fell upon his heart like a corrosive tear, and Marsa, in all her dark, tawny beauty, rose before him.
Frankly, in accents of the deepest love and the most sincere devotion, Andras asked Marsa Laszlo if she would consent to become his wife. But he was terrified at the expression of anguish which passed over the pale face of the young girl. Marsa, Princess Zilah!
But the Prince was not cool enough to analyze an intonation. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "I have suffered so much during these weeks of doubt; but this happiness makes amends for all." "Do you know what Varhely said to me?" asked Marsa. "Yes, I know." "Well, since the Zilahs treat their love-affairs as they do their duels, and risk their whole existence, so be it! I accept. Your existence for mine!
It appeared to him quite simple that Marsa should confide in him, as he on his side would have related to her his whole life, if she had asked it with a glance from her dark eyes. He felt that he had reached one of the decisive moments of his life.
They called me MARSA, too, and when Mr. St. Claire asked me how my MASTER and young lady were, the old she one who sat smoking in the corner, with a turban on her head as high as a church steeple, took the pipe from her month and actually SWORE. "Swore, Victor!" exclaimed Edith, who had listened in amazement to his story.
After the terrible overthrow of all her hopes, Marsa was seized with a fever, and she lay upon her bed in a frightful delirium, which entirely took away the little sense poor old Vogotzine had left. Understanding nothing of the reason of Zilah's disappearance, the General listened in childish alarm to Marsa, wildly imploring mercy and pity of some invisible person.
When Zilah came the next day he found Marsa perfectly calm. At first he only questioned her anxiously as to her health. "Oh! I am well," she replied, smiling a little sadly; and, turning to the piano at which she was seated, she began to play the exquisitely sad romance which was her favorite air. "That is by Janos Nemeth, is it not?" asked the Prince. "Yes, by Janos Nemeth.
I am very fond of his music; it is so truly Hungarian in its spirit." The music fell upon the air like sighs like the distant tones of a bell tolling a requiem a lament, poetic, mournful, despairing, yet ineffably sweet and tender, ending in one deep, sustained note like the last clod of earth falling upon a new-made grave. "What is that called, Marsa?" said Andras. She made no reply.
The days passed thus in that villa of Maisons-Lafitte, where Tisza died. Very often, in the evening, Marsa would shut herself up in the solitude of that death-chamber, which remained just as her mother had left it. Below, General Vogotzine smoked his pipe, with a bottle of brandy for company: above, Marsa prayed.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking