“Diana, Diana—I love you!—And ah, Diana, you love me—”
She flung out her hands to push him from her, and all her wounded heart spoke in her cry:—
“Do not say it, my lord! Oh, I have so dreaded to hear you say it!”
But her very pain was triumph in his ears. As masterfully as he caught and imprisoned her hands once again, so did his passion seize and crush her woman’s scruples:—
“We are alone in a dying world! Who knows if we shall see another dawn! Shall we not take the day that is given us, make use of life while life is still ours?”
And while she looked at him, speechless, her eyes dark in the sorrowful pallor of her face, he cried in a tone that pierced to her very marrow:—
“Diana—come to my arms and teach me, let me teach thee, how sweet life can be … how sweet death can be!”
She had ceased to struggle against him. Her hands lay inert in his.
He put his arm about her then; and, motionless, she submitted. But the tears slowly, slowly welled to her piteous eyes. Then he drew back from her, rose and stood again, gazing at her; the exultation, the fires of ecstasy, fading from his face, and something hard, ruthless, taking their place.
“I can get a priest to wed us, in Whitehall, ere the day be an hour older,” he said, frowning upon her.