He had bowed her so low that his magnanimity would now have its full effect, would shine as the sun into a dark world; and yet he was not happy.

He could look forward to the morrow, and say, "She will understand me, she will know me!" and, lo, the thought that she wept for her lover stabbed him, and stabbed him anew; and he thought, "Rather would she death from him, than life from me! Though I give her creation, it will not alter her! Though I strike the stars with my head, it is he who fills her world." The thought spurred him to further cruelty, impelled him to try if, prostrate as she was, he could not draw a prayer from her.
"You don't ask after him ?" he scoffed.

"He may be before or behind?
Or wounded or well?
Would you not know, Madame?
And what message he sent you?
And what he fears, and what hope he has?
And his last wishes?
And--for while there is life there is hope--would you not learn where the key of his prison lies to-night?
How much for the key to-night, Madame ?" Each question fell on her like the lash of a whip; but as one who has been flogged into insensibility, she did not wince.

That drove him on: he felt a mad desire to hear her prayers, to force her lower, to bring her to her knees.

And he sought about for a keener taunt.