"Nay; you are looking on the species in degradation. Why not a creature free to come or go—thought of in absence—loved in presence—going, to return more gladly—sure of a kindly welcome?"
He looked fixedly at her. Could this be Lady Dora? An idea crossed his mind—she was one of two things, either luring him on to enchain, then crush him beneath the weight of those manacles; or else the arrival of Lord Randolph, the necessity of deciding her fate, the scene around, their isolation from all, and freedom from restraint, had combined to make her cast off the wearying mantle of her self-imposed pride, which had cloaked her in a corslet of impervious steel: it was a battle between them well finessed; both were on their guard.
"I will prove, before I advance," he thought, "and woe to the day she places herself in my hands. I will be unsparing, as she was merciless and cold-hearted. Right!" he said aloud, in answer to her last sentence. "I would be an eagle, free and soaring, mated with one wild and ambitious as myself—towering and untameable. Such a one I could choose—to such a one yield love for love, and, like the fabled bird, consume with the ardour of my affections, and rise again from my ashes to live again—love again!" His warmth aroused her to a sense of her danger.
"We are in truth playing our parts in the madness around us!" she said, in a voice which struggled to be calm.
"True; but we play our parts con amore, admit that; and the better, that we know two things—one is, you cannot love—the other, I dare not."
"I should have thought you a man to dare all things!"
"You give me credit for more than I deserve. There are many things I would not encounter willingly—one is——"
"What?"
Despite his self-command, a cloud crossed his brow.
"I will tell you some day," he hastily answered; "but if I met this spectre, even as spectre, I would fly it."