Phroso’s hand—the one I had not taken—was suddenly stretched out, and she spoke in a voice that sounded half-stifled:
‘Tell me, my lord, tell me. I can’t endure it longer.’
Then I grew grave and said:
‘I am free. She has given me my freedom.’
‘She has set you free?’
‘She loves me no longer, I suppose, if she ever did.’
‘Oh, but, my lord, it is impossible.’
‘Should you think it so? Phroso, it is true—true that I can come to you now.’
She understood at last. For a moment she was silent, and I, silent also, pierced through the darkness to her wondering face. Once she stretched out her arms; then there came a little, long, low laugh, and she put her hands together, and thrust them, thus clasped, between mine that closed on them.