"Poor child," said Mirko, stroking the silky waves of her hair, "I must have been mad! Will you not believe that I was mad, dear,—and forget all that I would have you forget?"
He knelt beside her putting one arm about her; with his free hand he forced her head up from her locked fingers and would have kissed the tears away, but she drew back with horror.
"Oh, no! Never again!"
"Ragna," he pleaded, "but you love me?"
"I did love you—once," she said in a toneless voice. "I did love you—too much."
"No, dearest, not too much—" he started but stopped silenced by the expression of her eyes.
"God knows," he said impulsively, "that I would give my life not to have hurt you! You were too beautiful,—you maddened me!"
She smiled a little scornfully, very sadly, and the smile condemned him in his own consciousness; in her eyes he saw reflected for the first time the futility of his declarations, the shallow selfishness of his nature. It seemed to him that he shrivelled morally under her gaze. To Ragna he had become a stranger, the dream hero was shattered irremediably; the scales had fallen from her eyes and with a pitilessly clear vision she had seen the paltry egoism of the man's soul. Something had snapped within her,—a light had gone out; she wondered dully if anything could matter very much again.
Mirko rose to his feet rather unsteadily and poured himself a glass of wine; as he raised it to his lips someone knocked on the door and he started, spilling half the contents of the glass. Maria's voice called cheerfully.
"The vetturino wants to know at what hour the Signori will start, it is getting late."