She stood tall and white before him, her great eyes fastened to his, and looking deep into the craven soul of him. He reached for her hands—then something, a new and strange helplessness, overpowered him, and he sank trembling on the moss.
“Mr. Simpson,” said the girl quietly, “you must go—for your own sake. You must go now.”
“Gloss, oh Gloss!” he murmured brokenly, “how I love you, girl! You cannot know how much. I was mad—mad. Can you forgive me, Gloss?”
“No, I can’t forgive you. I have no power to forgive you. It wasn’t me you hurt once—it’s not me you would hurt again.”
“Don’t say that,” he cried. “I merely held you in my arms, and kissed you. Yes, I held you in my arms—I kissed you——”
He struggled to his feet, trembling, his hair matted to his brow with perspiration.
“I did kiss you once,” he repeated, “and I would give my life either to undo it or to do it again.”
“You haven’t the power to do either,” she said earnestly; “believe me, you have not.”
“You are right,” he sighed. “Oh, yes, you are right. That other night when I met you on the path I was actuated by a passing fancy—just a passing fancy. I took you in my arms. You struggled. I kissed you. I looked into your soul—I looked into your soul, and saw what I must forever be banished from, Gloss. Am I not punished! Do you think I can ever forget?”
“I—I don’t know. Now, I must go.”