A little silence fell upon them both—a strange constraint which was new to them, and which Valmai was the first to break.
"I ought to be thanking you for saving my life, Cardo Wynne; but indeed I have no words to speak my thanks. I know I owe my life to you. What will I say?"
"Nothing," he said, leaning on his elbows and looking up into her face, "nothing; there is no need for thanks, for I could not help myself. It was the simplest thing; seeing you in danger I helped you out of it, for, Valmai," and here his voice sank low and trembled a little, "it is like this with me, and you must know it; had you been washed away by those cruel waves, there would have been no Cardo Wynne here to-night! I could not live without you! And you—Valmai, how is it with you?"
Her head drooped very low. Cardo, lying on the sands, looked up into the blushing face; but still she made no answer. Starting to his feet, he stretched out both hands to her, and said:
"Come, fanwylyd;[1] let us walk together—I cannot rest. Valmai, tell me, have I the same place in your heart that you have in mine? Place in my heart! Good heavens! There is no room there for anything else. You own it all, Valmai; you sway my very being! Have you no comfort to give me? Speak to me, dearest."
"Cardo," said Valmai, "can I give you what you have already stolen from me? I was alone and friendless when I met you that night in the moonlight, now I am happy though my heart has gone from me. What shall I say more? my English is not very good."
"But you can say, 'Cardo, I love you.' Say that again."
"Yes, I can say that, whatever."
"Say it, then, Valmai."
"Oh, well, indeed! You know quite well that I love you. Cardo, I love you." And to the sound of the plashing waves the old, old story was told again.